


All the Beautiful Pieces

by fhartz91



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Boys Kissing, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Kurtbastian friendship, M/M, Minor Violence, Mystery, Past Character Death, Past Lives, Psychic Abilities, Puppets, Romance, Sexual Content, Spells & Enchantments, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, mention of past era-specific child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 98,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson is spending the summer after graduation flipping houses with his brother for Cooper's total home renovation show. The show features the worst houses Cooper can buy, with Blaine playing the role of lackey so that Cooper can torture him in front of his viewers. The last house Blaine has to renovate is an original Victorian House in San Diego, CA, which is in terrible condition. But this house turns out to be more than just another job. It was once owned by a famous Vaudeville ventriloquist by the name of Andrew Smythe. It houses a very interesting collection of items - among them, two life-sized puppets. Blaine isn't sure exactly why, but he's drawn to them - especially to the one with the beautiful blue eyes. He convinces Cooper to give him the puppets, and Blaine starts to restore them. In the course of the restoration, Blaine finds out that neither puppet is simply a run-of-the-mill puppet, and Andrew Smythe was hiding a secret that will be the key to saving two lives.</p><p>(Character death refers to a death that happens in the past.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ForbiddenDusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForbiddenDusk/gifts).



> Warning for mention of anxiety, symptoms of anxiety including a fear of the dark, and hoarding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork you'll see during the story made by the incredible ForbiddenDusk (freakingpotter)

Blaine stares out the windshield of his rented Honda Odyssey, his jaw dropping open, stunned out of his senses at the sight of the disastrous house in front of him. His hands grip the steering wheel for support. His knees knock together, completely out of his control. A low, pitiful whining noise rattles around in the back of his throat. The house to his right, nestled incongruously behind a manicured lawn, carefully pruned rose bushes, and a well-established Mulberry tree, is so incredibly awful that he can’t stop looking at it. It’s like a horrendous traffic accident – lots of blood and twisted metal, but try as you might, you can’t make yourself look away.

“What’s wrong, squirt?” Cooper, Blaine’s older brother, asks. “Is something wrong with my new investment?”

“Uh, I’m looking at your _new investment_ right now,” Blaine groans, sounding strangled and pathetic, but he couldn’t care less.

“And…” Cooper asks, his voice an annoying, disembodied presence in Blaine’s Bluetooth since there is no way that Cooper Anderson would actually deign to come out to a new project house himself.

He leaves that kind of grunt work to his baby brother, Blaine.

 _Cooper Anderson’s Complete Home Renovation_ started as a way for Blaine’s brother to translate his B-list (to put it kindly) celebrity status into a steady paycheck. At first, Blaine thought this show would turn into another fad - a superficial hobby that Coop would get really excited about for a few months and then become bored with when the hard work began. Cooper had a reputation for those – Catamaran racing, model plane building, volunteering at the Greyhound rescue. But this time, Blaine had to give Coop some credit. When he started the show a year or so back, he did research, found a reputable contractor, and learned the ins and outs of foreclosed property auctions. It was the most responsible Cooper had been about something in a long while. He flipped a few houses, got a desirable time slot on a basic cable network, and made a decent amount of money doing it. But the show was dull as dishwater and the ratings tanked. That was until Cooper decided to do things his usual way, which basically meant firing every capable person involved with the production of the show, managing everything himself…and soliciting the help of his younger brother.

Cooper purchased the properties, usually through a third party company, and then turned Blaine loose on whatever disaster he had bought. Blaine would perform a preliminary walkthrough of the various houses, with Cooper accompanying him through the aid of a wireless webcam, while back at command central (Cooper’s fancy name for his breakfast nook), Cooper and his contractor, who remained silent through the walkthrough to make Cooper look like the knowledgeable one, made plans for the renovation. In no time flat, Cooper ended up with a sensational cult following, as well as a membership-only website. Members to the website got the privilege of watching the live webcam feed and witnessing all the hilarious - and embarrassing - pitfalls that Blaine suffered. Later on, the feed would be edited for television. The show became a bigger hit than Blaine could have ever imagined - which was one of the many reasons why Blaine wanted _nothing_ to do with it.

Blaine had a strict policy _not_ to participate in any of Cooper’s harebrained ideas. This one, being a television show, pretty much screamed, “No! Don’t! Turn back!” Blaine had dreams of being on Broadway one day, and he didn’t need his brother destroying his reputation before he even had one. But Cooper never took no for an answer, and in this case, he knew his brother’s Achilles’ heel.

College.

But not just any college.

NYADA.

The premier college for musical theater, located in none other than Blaine’s dream city – New York.

Blaine was desperate to get there, especially now that their parents decided last minute not to pay for it. It was all right for Blaine to say he wanted to go to NYADA, but in the end, his parents were counting on a more practical college choice, like Stanford or Princeton. They would even bend as far as accepting NYU, as long as Blaine majored in business or medicine, but not NYADA. No. They didn’t want another foolish child with dreams of making it big as a performer making a mockery of the Anderson family name.

Not like Cooper.

Sure, Cooper had managed some bit parts in a few movies, and a one-line speaking role on a television series, but before his renovation show took off, his claim to fame as a thespian had been one _FreeCreditRatingToday.com_ commercial.

His parents were less than impressed.

Cooper knew Blaine was trying to find a way to save up for college, and truth be told, he felt guilty. He realized that, in a way, _he_ had caused all these problems for Blaine, but it wasn’t in Cooper’s nature to simply come out and apologize…especially when his idea to have Blaine as a lackey on his show was so much better.

Blaine caved when he realized that Cooper’s offer, no matter how destructive it might be to his future career, was his only real hope, especially considering what Cooper was offering to pay him in comparison to working part time at the Lima Bean, which only paid minimum wage plus the occasional tip. So, Blaine spent most of his free time and all of his school breaks helping Cooper flip houses.

That included his summer vacation.

This summer would be Blaine’s final hoorah on the show until his next big school break, which prompted the idea to bring Blaine out to the West Coast to do a _Fun in the Sun_ edition of _Cooper Anderson’s Complete Home Renovation_.

Blaine was initially thrilled by the idea. A couple of months at their family’s old beach house (God, they hadn’t been there in years), spending some time lying out on the sand, relaxing, rescuing his upper arms from an unsightly farmer’s tan, and escaping his mom and dad’s constant looks of disapproval every time he entered a room.

The first three vile houses he renovated in San Diego, however, almost made any fun and relaxation Blaine had planned for this trip completely immaterial.

But _this_ house – his last house – takes the cake for sure.

“Blai-ney?” Cooper sings through the earpiece, cutting through Blaine’s thoughts and the dead air.

“Do you ever see these houses _before_ you buy them, Coop?” Blaine asks. He tilts his head from side to side and cranes his neck to peer out the windshield, refusing to move from his seat until he absolutely has to.

“Why? Is it the wrong house?” Cooper asks in a panic. “It’s the Victorian, right? Please tell me it’s the Victorian!”

“It’s the Victorian, all right,” Blaine confirms with a long, heavy sigh. Or it _will_ be a decent Victorian house once they get rid of the hodge-podge of vomit-worthy paint that had been slapped on for God knows how long. The house looks like the whole color scheme was chosen by a drunk toddler. The main body of the house is a bright, fire engine red; the scrolled pillars and the sconces look to be hazard orange; and everything else is either bright blue or deep purple. If the house hadn’t been declared a historical landmark, Blaine is sure that the neighbors would have torn it apart panel by panel.

“Then what’s the problem?” Cooper sounds worried at the reluctance in his brother’s voice, not that Blaine isn’t always reluctant. That’s part of the shtick. Cooper makes it a point to buy the worst houses he’s heard of, sight unseen, because Blaine’s initial reaction is a big part of his TV show’s draw.

Besides, torturing his younger brother has always been one of Cooper Anderson’s favorite past times.

“So, are you inside yet, squirt?” Cooper pipes up over Blaine’s Bluetooth. “Because I’m seeing a serious lack of anything interesting on my computer screen. Of course, I’m not all that tech savvy. Check the feed on your end.”

“I’m not in the house yet, Coop,” Blaine moans.

“Wha--- well, why not?” Cooper sputters. “Time’s a-wasting here, kiddo. We have a show to put on. Chippity-chop-chop, Blaine!”

Blaine sighs and switches on the portable webcam, focusing the lens on his own face so that Cooper can check the feed.

“There’s my handsome little man,” Cooper coos, thrilled to tease his baby brother in front of his slew of dedicated viewers. “Now go and show me the house that’s destined to become my newest masterpiece.”

Blaine’s shoulders slump, weighed down by the inevitable. He opens the minivan door, ready to step out and get the full effect of how awful it truly is, when he is hit with a smell so powerful it forces him back into his seat.

“Ugh! Blech!” He locks the doors and turns on the air conditioner to flush the evil smell out, but that doesn’t work the way he hopes. The conditioned air circulates the smell throughout the car. Immediately, the stench sticks to the upholstery and his clothes.

Blaine doesn’t want to breathe it in any more than he has to, but there’s something curious about the smell. Yes, it’s disgusting to think that the house stinks so badly he can smell it all the way from his minivan with the windows rolled up, but now that time has passed, he realizes it isn’t altogether a bad smell. It’s more odd than bad. Against his better judgment, Blaine takes a deep breath in through his nostrils and holds it, shutting his eyes to get a better idea of what the smell reminds him of.

_Melancholy._

_Bittersweet._

Like a musty old funeral home parlor, where each grain of wood, each fiber of carpet seems to be infused with the sorrow, pain, and tears of mourners grieving for loved ones lost.

To put it simply, the house smells _sad_.

Regardless, whatever is causing that smell can’t be healthy.

Even more than the smell, which is disturbing to say the least, it’s the silence that unnerves him.

Blaine had gotten lost on his way here. He had parked in the cul-de-sac on the opposite side of the street and sat for a good twenty minutes checking his GPS before he realized his mistake. Harbor Drive cuts in half with a strip of neighborhood right down its middle. He had ended up on the other side. The side he originally parked in is a lively, typical suburban neighborhood, with kids riding their bikes and people in their yards gardening, watering their lawns, talking and laughing, enjoying this beautiful Southern California afternoon.

The cul-de-sac this Victorian house sits in is much the same – the same identical houses, the same green lawns, the same suburban atmosphere - only there are no children playing here, and no busy neighbors tending to their gardens. Blaine looks up at the sky. For two whole minutes, not a single bird passes overhead, and there isn’t an insect to be seen.

Life seems to avoid this neighborhood, and probably for good reason.

Blaine can’t shake the ominous feeling that he’s being watched…and he probably isn’t the first person who’s felt that way. Blaine had heard that this house got no foot traffic. Even when it was put up for auction, few people came by to take a look at it, which is strange considering how popular real Victorian houses are in this area of the country.

But something as trivial as the possibility of a supernatural threat to his life will not deter Cooper Anderson from ratings and equity. Blaine will eventually have to get out of the Odyssey and go into the house. He reaches into his glove box and pulls out a dust mask, which Cooper must see since he starts yelling into the earpiece.

“No! Blaine! What are you doing?”

“Coop, I can smell your house all the way from the van,” Blaine explains, giving himself permission to be haughty. “I’m protecting myself from whatever lives in the air around this place.”

“No, you can’t cover your face!” Cooper complains. Blaine might find Cooper’s desperation amusing if he wasn’t trying to talk him out of keeping himself safe. “You _know_ my viewers tune in to see my dapper brother’s handsome face. Your face is my money maker!”

“So, you’re going to risk my health, and my future as a singer, for ratings?” Blaine argues, annoyed at his brother’s overwhelming lack of concern. When he doesn’t receive a response, he decides to appeal to one of Cooper’s real loves – money. “You know, one stray mold spore gets into my lungs and your insurance premiums take a hit.”

“Hey,” Cooper says in a sly voice, “it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

But Blaine knows better than to let his brother dictate matters of life and death, and squirrels the mask into his back pocket. He won’t be on camera the whole time, and it’s an easy enough thing to slip on and off without Cooper noticing.

He had to do it for those last three houses.

Blaine grabs the webcam and climbs out of the minivan. He takes extra time to make sure the doors are locked and the windows rolled up, deliberately stalling. Finally, he gives in and walks up to the cartoon-esque fun house that smells like heartbreak and woe.

Blaine stands for a moment to take it all in. Then he trains the webcam on the house, and Cooper laughs like a hyena through Blaine’s Bluetooth.

“Holy crap!” he roars. “Stop, Blainers. Just…just give our audience a moment to appreciate the monstrosity before us.”

Blaine scans the scene, starting from the far left and moving to the right.

“What the hell colors are those?” Cooper chokes the words out between the most unattractive chortles Blaine has ever heard. “It looks like a carnival funhouse.”

“Yeah, well, you sure know how to pick ‘em, Coop,” Blaine recites in a practiced flat and sour tone. It’s one of his many catch phrases that he is required to say through the course of filming. Unoriginal, but it seems to make the viewers happy. Twice in the last six months the phrase _‘Pick a Winner, Coop’_ has trended on Twitter.

And Blaine has been a huge part of that.

Yippee.

“You know, this house has a really well-kept lawn to go with that crap paint job.”

“The realtor told me that the ladies from the historical society were taking care of the landscaping,” Blaine remarks as he trots up the walk, not that Cooper actually cares, but because Blaine does his best to fill in the silences with informative little tidbits. If anything, maybe he can use it as a way to showcase his professionalism and dedication to the craft - his ability to improvise.

Blaine Anderson – Master of Finding the Silver Lining.

Blaine takes the keys out of his pocket. He had to pick them up directly from the realtor’s office. For some reason, the severe, dowdy, and unnaturally petite woman wouldn’t meet him at the house.

She said specifically that she never went down there.

That, in itself, is not a reassuring testimonial.

Blaine works to unlock the deadbolt, balancing the webcam beneath his chin and pulling the door toward him when the lock won’t turn.

“Anyone want to take a bet on what it looks like inside?” Cooper asks, filling up the empty air space while Blaine fumbles with the uncooperative lock. Blaine feels his phone buzz in his pocket which means that Cooper also tweeted that question to his viewers. “Op! Blaine’s struggling with the lock! Nobody must have gone in this house in years! This is going to be _horrible_! I can feel it!”

Cooper chuckles wickedly and Blaine rolls his eyes. He isn’t sure that he likes the strange, sadistic pleasure Cooper gets from tormenting him like this.

Blaine jiggles the doorknob while turning the key, cranking it left and right, but it isn’t just that the lock itself is stuck. It feels like the door is being held closed from the inside. All of Blaine’s inner alarms start going off – in his head where his ears ring with Cooper’s inane laughter, in his chest where his heart races so hard that his ribs hurt, in his feet where he shifts weight from one to the other, as eager to be in the house and done with this as he is to get into his minivan and leave.

At the thought of leaving, the door finally opens, shoving in about a foot and then stopping dead. Blaine pushes and pushes, but the door won’t budge any farther.

“Uh…Blaine?” Cooper’s voice calls through the Bluetooth. “I like your shoes and that lovely sweater vest you’re wearing as much as the next guy, but do you think you could hold the webcam up so we can see what’s going on? All this bouncing around is making me want to hurl. It’s like a scene from _Cloverfield_ or something.”

Blaine pulls the webcam out from beneath his chin and sticks it around the corner of the door. If he can’t make his way into the house, at least Cooper and his audience can see what he’s up against.

“Well…that’s a…dark room you’re showing us there, Blainers,” Cooper teases in a straight voice. “In fact, that’s an incredible shade of grey we’re seeing at the moment. Do you think you could open up a curtain or turn on a light there, squirt?”

“I’m… _hmpf_ …I’m trying…” Blaine grumbles, struggling to keep the webcam aloft while fighting to open the door. After a few backbreaking heaves, he gives up and shimmies through the narrow crack he’s already made, sucking in his stomach to keep from snagging his sweater vest on the edge of the door. He slips through the opening, having to stop a second to maneuver his leg around the bend, and stumbles inside. His right foot comes in contact with the floor, his left foot raised behind him, and the front door slams shut.

The room he’s standing in goes from grey to black, and everything becomes eerily silent.

Even Cooper’s chuckle dies to muffled breaths over Blaine’s Bluetooth.

Blaine stands completely still, praying that nothing runs at him from out of the shadows.

Of course, it doesn’t help in the slightest that he had stayed up late last night streaming Stephen King’s mini-series _Rose Red_. Whatever possessed him to watch a show about a haunted house hours before coming here, he will never know.

His eyes adjust to the lack of light. They water excessively, clouded by thick layers of dust that he can smell and taste with every breath he takes. He holds his breath, sure that any monsters hiding in the dark will hear even the slightest inhale.

“Blaine?” Cooper whispers harshly. “Do… _something_ …”

“I’m… _trying_ …” Blaine whispers back with an added huff of annoyance.

Blaine finally dares to turn his head, sweeping the webcam around the room. He reaches out his free hand, his arm shaking as he tries to stay balanced on one foot, and feels for a light switch on the wall by the door. His fingers come in contact with one; he flips it up and down madly, but with no results.

“Coop…I thought you called SDG&E and had the power switched on,” Blaine says, continuing to flip the switch rapidly in hopes that a loose wire somewhere will spark after enough tries and the lights will flick on.

“I did,” Cooper responds in an unnecessarily low voice. “Maybe there’s a blown fuse or a busted circuit.”

Blaine whimpers. He’s not looking forward to negotiating this mess without any light. He attempts to put his elevated foot down, his knee sore from tensing to keep it bent up, but everywhere he steps he feels bulky items in his way, disinclined to be pushed aside. He finds a loose… _something_ …and shoves at it, sliding it across the floor about a foot and making a space to take a step.

“Okay…” Blaine says, both triumphant and anxious as he creeps across the room in this manner. He can’t see anything but shapes and silhouettes that change when he relocates some blurry mystery object. He ignores the sounds of shuffling that echo through the room in response to his movements, keeping his eyes fixed on a single ray of light streaming in through a crack in the curtains. Blaine counts his steps, trying to estimate how big the room is by his strides across the floor.

“Can you see anything?” Cooper asks conversationally, keeping the show moving along while Blaine picks his way at a snail’s pace through the unseen clutter.

“Not yet,” Blaine replies, only a hair louder than a whisper because he’s still wary of talking _too_ loudly - a hidden childhood fear of the dark rearing its ugly head. “I’m trying to make it to the curtains on the windows, but this room is large and packed with stuff.” Blaine looks down at his feet, aiming the webcam at the floor. “Do you see anything, Coop?”

“Naah, not yet, squirt…” Blaine smiles when he hears Cooper sound mildly concerned on his behalf, “just a really, really dark blur.”

“Congratulations, Coop,” Blaine chirps, tripping over something that clangs metallically when it comes in contact with his foot. “You purchased a void.”

Nervous laughter follows Blaine’s comment and he smiles wider. It’s nice to know that every so often his big brother actually cares.

“If you come across any television sets, don’t turn them on,” Cooper warns. “I wouldn’t want you getting sucked in and crossing over to the other side.”

Blaine shakes his head.

“ _Poltergeist_? Really?” Blaine groans, hopping a few steps and finally making his way to the window. “You _do_ know you just aged yourself, don’t yo--”

“I see some light there, squirt,” Cooper cuts in, smoothly evading the mention of his age. “Did you finally make it to the window, or do you feel like walking around in the dark for another ten minutes?”

Blaine doesn’t answer, having deftly slipped the dust mask over his mouth and nose, preparing to open the curtain, which he is sure has to be caked with dust.

He’s right.

With his free hand, he pulls open the heavy fabric of the first curtain, watching as dust motes swirl in front of his eyes, dimming the sun’s light as it pierces the grime on the windows. He moves aside the second curtain, stepping over what he can see in this new light are various metal and wooden objects, peculiar faces peering up at him, staring with chipped and empty eyes.

Dirty light is better than no light at all, but Blaine has a hard time making sense of what he’s seeing. He has been in houses before that had rooms piled high with all sorts of trash – food containers, two-liter bottles, dirty plates, newspapers and magazines with yellowing and cracked pages, even one house with rooms stuffed from floor to ceiling with filthy used diapers, but what he is currently looking at is downright bizarre. Everywhere underfoot there are twisted limbs, contorted bodies, orphaned heads, and a mass of brightly colored clothing and costumes. They’re small – child sized. He makes his way to the next set of windows and opens those curtains. Light floods the room, defused through the layer of dried gunge on the glass, giving it a sepia hue, but with better illumination, Blaine can see the room clearly.

Toys. Piles and piles of toys - dolls, puppets, trains, cars, stuffed animals by the pound. Some are stacked along the walls, mint in their boxes, but the majority lay in heaps, overflowing mountains and dunes, filling the room from corner to corner.

“Holy...”

Cooper’s voice cuts off when Blaine turns and focuses the camera on a long hallway, as foreboding as the living room but inconceivably darker. Blaine swallows hard, knowing that’s the next place Cooper will tell him to go.

“Whoa, Blaine…look at that…”

 _Yeah, yeah,_ Blaine thinks, taking a step in that direction. _I’m going._

“Hold up,” Cooper says. “Go back to the toys on the floor.”

Blaine breathes a sigh of relief at his temporary reprieve. He aims the camera down, trying to get the best view he can in the low light of the toys scattered over the floor.

“Are those made of metal?” Cooper asks.

“Yup,” Blaine says, moving the mask away from his mouth so he can speak. “Well, some of them. Some of them appear to be wood.”

“Get a closer shot, Blaine. I want to look at those.”

Blaine moves from toy to toy, holding the webcam still for a few seconds so his brother can get some decent screenshots. He hears Cooper typing frantically, researching something on his computer.

“Are you seeing this, Blaine?” Cooper asks excitedly over the earpiece. “Those tin banks? That’s some early 1900s shit. And there’re loads of them! The stuff in that room alone could be worth a fortune! Imagine what we might find in the rest of the house?”

 _We_ , Blaine thinks, shaking his head. _Right_.

Blaine hears more frantic typing, quiet cheering, some scribbling and muttering as Cooper takes down notes on his end of the line. “Okay, Blaine,” Cooper continues, not revealing any of the information he uncovered on his web search, “why don’t you head down that hallway and see what else we’re dealing with?”

Blaine lifts the webcam to show the view of the hallway, partially blocked by a mound of what looks like original Care Bears, and columns of stacked board games. Blaine catches sight of a familiar yellow box with the word _OPERATION_ written across the side in red block letters. It immediately brings to mind all those days he spent kneeling at the coffee table in his living room, playing the game over and over…even if he played mostly by himself.

 _Good times_ , he thinks. _Good times_.

At least he has that happy memory to carry with him into the afterlife, because he is fairly certain that he is going to be murdered in this house.

Blaine has never been in a house before that has so much emotion attached to it. In his property searches, Cooper gravitates toward houses previously owned by hoarders since they have the potential to be the most horrendous, but the one thing Blaine has learned by visiting these houses is that hoarders have a tendency to attach importance to the most off-the-wall things.

It’s not the item, of course, but what or who it represents – and the inability to let go.

Maybe he doesn’t always understand the reason behind the hoard, but it breaks his heart to see it every time.

Hoarding toys, though - _this_ he can understand. It’s holding tight to the best part of a person’s life – their childhood.

Blaine makes his way to the hall, opening the last two sets of curtains along the way until the room is nearly, but not quite, cheerful.

Something still troubles him. Something the immense dark wasn’t hiding after all. The feeling of being watched lingers, but it’s joined by a feeling of being called. As insane as it sounds, Blaine feels there’s something in this house that wants him to find it.

When he gets closer to the hallway, he can see that the extreme darkness of this narrow pathway is an illusion. The mountain of toys blocks the living room light head on, and throws shadows along the floor, but as soon as he turns into it, it becomes a tunnel of light. Behind him, the sunlight in the living room extends its way to the hallway. Blaine sees square windows lining the walls, as grimy as the living room windows, but letting in more light as the sun moves across the sky. This space is littered with toys on the floor just like in the living room, but less so because here they also hang from the walls.

“Blaine, is that a puppet?” Cooper asks.

Blaine takes a step back. “I think so.”

“Blaine, turn to the puppet on the wall - the one with the red hair.”

Blaine turns toward the wall, where a row of puppets hang from wires by thumbtacks embedded in the plaster.

“That…that looks like an original Howdy Doody puppet. That’s got to be worth some money. What do you say, Blainers?”

“I imagine so,” Blaine agrees, taking off his mask and stuffing it in his pocket for the time being since the air here doesn’t seem as dusty. He’s getting sweaty with that thing on anyway.

“Don’t you know?” Cooper sounds distracted, and Blaine hears Cooper typing again. “Aren’t you all puppet savvy and whatnot?”

“I _make_ puppets,” Blaine corrects his brother, moving on to the next puppet down the line. “I don’t _collect_ them.”

“Same diff,” Cooper comments. “It’s still creepy as hell. Let’s see the next one.”

The next puppet is an animal puppet, but what kind of animal, Blaine can’t really tell. It might be a horse…or a dog…or a bear. It’s a scruff of brown fur with eyes and a pointy snout. He vaguely recognizes it as being from an old kids’ TV show that he saw mentioned in a documentary about Vaudeville performers on PBS. Blaine looks down the length of the wall ahead of him to where it dips back into the semi-darkness and sees additional animal puppets, most of them from the same show.

The hallway leads straight to the dining room. From where Blaine stands, he sees only two pieces of furniture - a round, wooden table sitting right at the entrance, its top covered in newspapers and photo albums; and a matching China cabinet standing up against a far wall. This room, too, is full of toys, stacked on the floor and along the walls, but the boxes of these toys look better cared for, the colors crisper. These toys are newer, Barbie dolls and G. I. Joes from the last thirty or forty years perhaps. There are so many that Blaine can’t pick out one specific doll or action figure from the lot. But this room has one interesting feature that the living room and hallway don’t have.

There are posters all over the walls, framed beneath glass.

“Jesus H...we can open our own toy store with this much crap,” Cooper mumbles, but Blaine ignores him. He points the webcam at the boxes, but his own focus drifts to the posters. They’re hard to see through the inches of dust obscuring his view, but they look like antique theater posters. He leans in close, careful not to breathe and disturb the micro-organisms snoozing away amidst the crud. He narrows his eyelids and tries to make out the words or the pictures, but the sunlight reflects off the glass and into his eyes. He starts thinking of a way to clean the dust off and examine the poster properly, but a chuckle in his earpiece tips him off that his brother has made a new discovery, and Blaine is going to have to investigate.

“Blaine, I’m looking at the floor plan that the realtor emailed me, and there should be two doors in this room – one with a staircase that goes to the upper level, and one with a staircase that goes down to…” A strain of sinister music plays and Blaine puts a hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the headache that’s starting to grow – “ _the basement_.”

Blaine opens his eyes and finds the doors quickly, situated between the China cabinet and a shuttered window. He walks to the window and pulls at the clasp on the shutter. The metal hook has rusted completely into the looped eye it’s been buried in for decades, but Blaine shakes the hook back and forth until it slides free. He pulls open the shutters and smiles. This window isn’t as coated in dirt as the others, and now the room is brightly lit.

“So here’s the question,” Coopers rambles on. “Do we send Blaine upstairs to take a look at the bedrooms, or do we send him downstairs to _the basement_?”

Blaine hears more tinny, old tyme horror music, with dramatic organ notes playing in a minor chord. He can’t help but laugh. This whole thing is ridiculous, but at least Cooper has found his niche in the world.

Blaine opens the doors one at a time. He knows he’s going to be sent to the basement eventually, so he decides to hurry things along. The staircases are pitch black, but the longer he spends in the house, the less perturbing it seems. He feels like he’s being led along, like a hand is guiding him, and when he opens the door revealing a staircase leading down, he wastes no time.

“Hey, wait!” Cooper objects. “We didn’t finish voting!”

“Too late,” Blaine quips, his feet scuttling down the concrete steps. “You took too long.” He jumps off the last step and is encompassed by another sea of pure inky nothingness, but this time he doesn’t hesitate. He feels around the walls, looking for a fuse box as he makes his way deeper into the room. The air down in the basement is colder, less inviting, and the walls are damp, but that sensation of being called is stronger down here.

It feels urgent, and he actually becomes excited by what he might find down here.

Blaine’s hand crawls across the wall until he hits a covered metal box.

“I think I found the fuse box,” Blaine grunts, pulling at the box, trying to find a way to open it. He tugs it left and right with no success. He considers hitting it with his fist, but the cover suddenly pops off and falls to the floor. Inside the box is a single, long-handled switch. Blaine grabs it and pushes it in an attempt to flip it up. It takes a little shimmying before it flies upward with a loud _clack_.

Blaine leaps back and waits for the lights to come on.

Nothing happens.

He hears a buzz…then a pop.

A bulb blinks overhead – off…on, off……on – its rhythm punctuated by an unnerving spit. The buzzing gets louder. The popping increases in tempo and becomes a hum. The blinking bulb clicks on and starts crackling. Then it burns. The yellow light from that single bulb lights the entire room. When Blaine can finally see without spots dancing in front of his eyes – a side effect of jumping the terminus between dark and bright – his jaw drops.

Down in this dreary basement is a fully-equipped workshop, with several sturdy work benches lined up in rows, each one running the width of the room and covered in tools – newer shop saws, drills, and lathes sitting alongside older, antique picks and files, along with some handmade metal implements. On a final bench pushed up against the far wall are wooden blanks in all shapes and sizes, and bolts of cloth printed in dated patterns. Above it, more puppets hang from pegs on the wall – bare wooden skeletons, some with porcelain heads, unpainted and unfinished.

“Come on, Blaine,” Cooper says, reminding Blaine that he’s not alone, “pan around and let us get a good look. What’s with all the tools?”

Blaine walks toward a saw that has the partial remains of an unfinished cut piece (an arm, maybe a leg) beneath its blade. The saw looks almost brand new, and the wooden appendage appears freshly cut, with a mound of sawdust collected nearby, as though some craftsman might have been working on it yesterday.

“I think” - Blaine moves down the workbench to examine a lathe - “this is a workshop for making puppets.”

“Geesh. This guy must have had a _serious_ puppet fetish.”

“I don’t usually like to agree with you, Coop,” Blaine says with more fascination than disgust, “but you might be right.”

Blaine’s webcam trails over the many benches, holding saws stopped likewise in the middle of unfinished projects. In the corner sits a squat, oblong kiln, about the size of an average nightstand. He runs his fingers over its surface as he passes by. He stops to peruse the contents of cardboard boxes with their tops hanging open. There are more tools, more wood pieces, more body parts and heads than Blaine has ever seen in his lifetime, definitely more than he had to work with in the arts and crafts class he took at McKinley. Blaine lifts the lens to take in the view of the puppets on the walls, the bolts, and then another door. He comes to a full stop and stares at it. He’s drawn to it, but he doesn’t know why. As Blaine walks toward it, he can hear the rustle of papers and the clattering of computer keys on Cooper’s end of the line.

“Uh, Blaine?”

“Yeah? What is it?” Blaine approaches the door as he speaks. He has a strong feeling that what he’s searching for, what’s calling to him, is somewhere behind this door. He reaches out his hand for the knob when Cooper talks again.

“Be careful when you open that door, Blainers.”

There’s a tone in Cooper’s voice that sends a chill down Blaine’s spine.

“Why is that?” Blaine asks, his fingers resting on the doorknob while he waits for an answer.

“Umm…because that door isn’t on the blueprints.”

Blaine’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t remove his hand.

“What do you mean _it’s not on the blueprints_?”

“That means there isn’t supposed to be a door there, Blaine. No room, no closet, no staircase. It’s not listed, so just…be careful.”

Blaine breathes in sharply and nods. He understands his brother’s trepidation. Homeowners sometimes do unpermitted renovations on their houses, and a lot of them are unsafe, but Blaine feels very sure that he needs to open the door in front of him.

He grabs the doorknob and holds tight, turning slowly.

The action of the tumblers feels smooth, not sticky or rusted like the other fixtures he’s encountered. He turns the knob till he hears everything unwind, and the door gives. It creaks open, swinging outward easily. The light from the basement breaches the opening, and a shaft of it falls on the floor, filling the room to the left and right of it with shadows. Carpet in a deep crimson color covers the ground. Blaine follows the path of the light with his webcam up from the floor and looks further into the room.

Cooper sees it before Blaine does, and lets out a scream of terror.

“H-holy f-fucking shit, Blaine!” he hears Cooper yell into the earpiece. “Oh my God! Are you seeing this? Go back! Go back down!”

Blaine pans down, following the webcam with his eyes, and his heart leaps into his throat.

Lying on the floor at his feet he sees a partially dismembered body, and a smashed in human head.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Cooper’s frantic screaming in Blaine’s ear scares the dickens out of him more than anything else. Cooper has a surprisingly shrill voice for a grown man. It falls somewhere between the sharp cry of a toddler who has skinned his knee and the wail of a damsel from a black-and-white monster movie. Blaine scrabbles to grab the Bluetooth, yanking the device out of his ear in an attempt to salvage what little hearing he has left.

Yes, the head lying on the floor, staring blankly up at him with one pale blue eye might look like a real human head, but Blaine knows right away that it isn’t from the way the light reflects off of its surface, and from the missing eye socket, the area surrounding it shattered in an unnatural star pattern. No, the head isn’t human. It’s porcelain - bisque masterfully tinted to look like human skin. It absorbs the ambient light around it and glows with an ethereal quality, giving off a halo of pinkish-white.

Blaine waits for the ringing in his ears to die down before he puts the Bluetooth back in his ear, catching Cooper mid-ramble.

“…and did you see, I mean, oh my God! That’s…just…creepy as hell!” Cooper’s excitement when he makes that statement startles Blaine. It shouldn’t, seeing as Cooper has crossed the line into the macabre more than once on this walkthrough alone, not to mention other times in other houses when Cooper had said that he hoped Blaine would uncover something gruesome beneath the piles of trash, like mummified cats or cockroach swarms.

 _As a joke_ , Cooper had emphasized. But still…

Luckily, Blaine had yet to stumble on either one of those.

Would Cooper honestly have been thrilled if Blaine had found an actual dead human body? Sometimes Blaine wonders exactly how far Cooper is willing to go for the sake of ratings.

At this precarious moment, Blaine feels it’s safer not to ask.

Blaine raises the webcam up along the shaft of light and sees scattered remains, each appearing remarkably human at first blush, but upon closer inspection, just as manufactured as the first.

“Let’s see more of the room, Blaine,” Cooper commands. “Get it all. Pan around.”

Blaine feels around the walls inside the doorway, trying to find a light switch, but there doesn’t seem to be one. He opens the door behind him wider to let more light from the workshop fill the room. With more than a single shaft of light to work with, he can see from wall to wall of this small room with ease. There are more body parts on the floor, including a second human-sized head, this one with piercing green eyes instead of blue. Blaine takes a step through the door, focusing his webcam on the pieces individually, and notices that all of these parts are exclusively life-size. The body parts are jointed, meticulously painted, made to look real and human, but they’re puppets – life-size puppets.

 _Human_ -looking puppets.

Blaine steps carefully over the broken limbs and shattered bits of porcelain to give Cooper and his viewers the full effect of this bizarre spectacle. Then he peels his eyes away from the floor to scan the rest of the space. On opposite sides of the room, there are beds, no more than army-issue metal cots by the looks of them, one on each end, pushed up against the wall.

Blaine approaches the bed to the left. It’s made up to be slept in, covered in stiff white sheets and a thin, olive-colored wool blanket, with a pillow at the head. Blaine glances over to the matching bed across the way and sees that it, too, is made. On both beds, the covers are thrown back and the mattress indented, indicating that they must have been slept in at one point.

Blaine turns back to the bed he’s standing beside, keeping the webcam trained on it as he examines the damp, grey stone wall. He sees marks cut diagonally into the stone, filled with shimmery pink porcelain dust.

Marks that look suspiciously like fingernail scratches.

Blaine’s entire body fills with a sudden chill. It starts where his hair stands on end and washes down to his feet. He swallows hard when it begins to fill his throat, knotting into a hard lump, choking him.

This room isn’t a closet or an extension of the workshop.

This is a cell.

Blaine doesn’t want to be an alarmist. He usually saves the drama for Cooper, and if it hadn’t been for the genuine note of nervousness in Cooper’s voice when he warned Blaine about the room not showing up on the blueprints, Blaine might consider this all an elaborate set-up. It wouldn’t be beyond Cooper’s scope to contrive some kind of haunted house inspired mayhem to freak Blaine out on-air, but Cooper Anderson isn’t _that_  good an actor.

Blaine considers the bigger picture.

If this  _was_  a cell, who was kept in here with these puppet parts scattered all over the floor and why? Was this some kind of weird sweatshop, with the original owner of the house keeping a couple of poor slaves locked down here to create puppets in order to feed his demented doll fetish?

Besides the beds and the broken puppets, there’s not all that much to look at in this room, and Blaine can’t help but feel sorry for whoever might have been locked in here. Of course, he could be jumping to conclusions, letting the ghastly atmosphere of this house get on his nerves. Whoever owned this house was obviously a toy fanatic, who happened to have a healthy (for lack of a better term) puppet obsession. From the look of the workshop – the order, the organization, the wealth of materials, the half-finished projects – this space is the heart of the house. The owner most likely spent the majority of their time here. Maybe this room was a bedroom built to be as close to the workshop as possible. If the bedrooms upstairs look anything like the living room, the hallway, and the dining room, maybe this was the only place available to sleep.

Blaine sure hopes that’s the case.

He pans the camera one last time so that Cooper can get the footage he needs, but without realizing it, his eyes keep returning to the puppet head on the floor – the one with the sorrowful blue eyes. He shifts his gaze over to the green-eyed puppet, but he doesn’t stare at it as long as he stares at the first. There’s something in those eyes, which change subtly from blue to grey in the artificial light, that haunts him, and he can’t shake the feeling, even though reason and logic argue to the contrary, that this beautifully morose puppet is begging for his help.

Cooper’s voice pops back through the Bluetooth. “It’s like…night of the living dead…creepy…creepy ass dolls…”

Blaine rolls his eyes at his brother’s unoriginality.

_My brother, the actor, ladies and gentlemen._

Of course, Cooper was always better at reciting _other_ people’s lines, not so much with the coming up of his own.

“Well, let’s get out of the Valley of the Dolls and head upstairs to the bedrooms. What do you say, Blainey-wainey?”

Blaine nods, even though Cooper can’t see him. But Blaine is convinced that the puppet did; that the blue-eyed puppet with the glass eyes is watching Blaine pick his way through the debris to get to the door.

The puppet is watching him leave…and Blaine can’t do it.

He doesn’t understand why, but he can’t leave it. He can’t condemn it to a sentence of loneliness in the dark, or to the trash heap when the cleaning crew comes to the house tomorrow.

“Come on, little bro. This is giving me the super heebie-jeebies!”

“I want them, Coop,” Blaine says without really thinking about the consequences, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that tons of Internet viewers heard him. It doesn’t matter that Cooper will use this to his advantage. Blaine has a pressing need to rescue this puppet from this horrible house, and not abandon it the way it had been before.

“What?” Cooper asks, the delight in his voice evident.

“You heard me, Cooper,” Blaine says. “I want these puppets.”

“Turn the webcam around so we can see you,” Cooper sings. Blaine drops on to the bed - the springs creaking with his added weight.

_Here we go._

Blaine turns the webcam on himself and adopts his most frustrated, put-off face, complete with pouty mouth.

This is another part of the game. If he plays it Cooper’s way, he gets what he wants, and Blaine _wants_ those puppets.

“But, Blaine,” Cooper says in a condescending voice, “these disturbing puppet-things could be worth a lot of money, like the ones upstairs. We can fix them up and  _voila_!”

“I don’t think they are,” Blaine negotiates, hoping that instead of doing something to make Blaine look like an ass that maybe, for once, Cooper will simply listen to reason. “I think these puppets were made more recently than those other puppets. And look here…” Blaine gets up off the bed and walks over to the green-eyed puppet, focusing the webcam on its smug face. “Look at the varnish work on this puppet head. It’s mismatched. I’m not sure that can be fixed. No collector in their right mind would buy it. There doesn’t look like there are enough salvageable pieces in here to make one complete puppet, not to mention two. So, my taking these off your hands won’t eat into your profits at all.”

He turns the webcam back on his face and waits for Cooper’s response.

A long silence meets his well thought-out argument, then the recorded sound of crickets chirping, and Blaine sighs.

He knows it didn’t fly.

“What do you want, Coop?” Blaine asks, running a hand through his sweaty curls.

“You know what I want, Blaine,” Cooper replies, and Blaine sighs again. “You know how this works. Make me a deal.”

This is part of a newer segment in Cooper’s show called  _Blaine Makes a Deal_. In his mind, Blaine can see the graphic that Cooper already has cued up flashing across his face on Cooper’s screen.

Cooper devised this new form of torture a few weeks ago when Blaine had asked to buy a vintage upright piano from one of the other San Diego project houses. Blaine comes up with a compelling argument for what he wants. Cooper retaliates with a reason for why he needs to sell said item (to recoup costs because they are  _way_  over budget, because it’s worth more to the renovation than to Blaine, because Cooper is considering keeping it for himself, yadda-yadda-yadda). After some bickering and banter back and forth, Blaine gets his keepsake, but in return Blaine does something for Cooper – something embarrassing.

In the case of the piano, Blaine had to complete the rest of the renovation for the house wearing a chicken costume, which sucked because San Diego had been experiencing an unseasonal heat wave his first week there. But the torment was fortunately short lived and now Blaine has a piano.

After that episode, Cooper begged Blaine to find something in the next house that he wanted. Anything. It didn’t matter if he really wanted it or not. Apparently viewer response to the segment was so overwhelming that Cooper was desperate to repeat that accidental success.

At the next house, Blaine obliged, asking for a Wedgewood Jasperware music box. He had spotted it amidst a mass of cheesy faux Hummel statuettes and broken Happy Meal toys.

The music box, with its delicate pink coloring and the stark white figure of a woman carved on the lid, reminded him of his mother. She had collected music boxes as a young girl, but between going away to college, changing states, and then getting married, they had all been lost or broken.

Blaine thought that he could give this one to her if she ever spoke to him again.

He paid for it by having to dress as Shirley Temple, complete with a rainbow swirl-lollipop prop, red patent leather Mary Janes, and a curly blonde wig.

“Fine, Cooper,” Blaine says, “but here’s the deal - I want _all_ of the pieces in this room, and anything I think I might need to repair them.”

“That’s a hefty haul,” Cooper says. “I’m not sure I can come up with a costume ridiculous enough to cover all that…unless you’re willing to do the rest of the remodel  _in only a diaper_ …”

“Nope,” Blaine says, “I have something better. Something you’d be stupid to refuse.”

“Oooo,” Cooper coos. “Better than my little brother running around in a diaper with a pacifier in his mouth?”

Blaine pauses and makes a face. “Oh my God, Cooper.” Blaine pulls back, shaking his head. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

Cooper clears his throat. “You…uh…you said you had something better…”

Blaine keeps an eyebrow raised in disbelief as he continues.

“In return, I…” Blaine’s eyes drift back to the puppet’s face, which he thinks, insanely enough, has started to look hopeful. Can that really be it, or is something in the air he’s breathing getting to him? “I’ll give you my salary from the renovation, plus my commission.”

Another silence.

“Wh-what?” Cooper sounds stunned, and this time he isn’t joking.

“That’s right,” Blaine says, feeling the tables turn in his favor. “ _Everything_  that I was set to make on this renovation.”

Blaine can hear Cooper breathe but nothing else – no clicking of the computer keys, no scribbling notes, no recorded sound effects.

Cooper is rarely ever speechless, and Blaine wishes he could be there in L.A. with him to see the look on his brother’s face.

Blaine realizes that what he’s doing is ludicrous. There is no way these broken puppets are worth what his brother is paying him. And what about NYADA? Why is he willing to put his future in jeopardy for this? Blaine can’t answer that. If he were to voice all of that out loud, he might actually see how asinine his decision is.

But where intelligent arguments in every form should prevail, they are snuffed out by the feeling that this is what’s right.

“Blaine,” Cooper says, sounding more like his older brother than the conceited actor Blaine is used to dealing with, “I can’t…”

“Cooper,” Blaine interrupts, worried that Cooper is about to mature without warning and put a kibosh on the whole deal, “I want them. This is important to me.”

Cooper sighs. It’s heavy and unamused, but Cooper recovers quickly the way he usually does, and the mega ego he’s so famous for returns.

“Well, congratulations, Blaine!” Cooper says in his best game show announcer voice, which sounds a tad forced. “You have just bought yourself a bunch of broken doll parts and a stigma that will follow you around for the rest of your life!”

“Thank you, Coop.” Blaine flips the webcam back around. “As always, you are far too generous.”

“You’re welcome. Now that that’s settled, would you mind doing your benevolent brother one teensy little favor?”

“Name it,” Blaine says, too overjoyed to be worried about what Cooper might have in mind.

“Can you get the fuckity-fuck-fuck out of that basement?”

Blaine laughs. It ricochets off the walls with a hollow echo. “Sure.”

Blaine is relieved that Cooper agreed to let him have the puppet pieces. Though what would Cooper have actually been able to do to stop him, with him in Los Angeles and Blaine in San Diego? He  _might_  drive down, but knowing Cooper that was highly unlikely. Now that the puppets are his, Blaine feels reluctant to leave them. He wants to take them back to the beach house and work on them right away, but he still has the rest of _this_ house to deal with.

He hopes there’s nothing upstairs that wants him to take it home. He doesn’t have much more to bargain with, and Cooper isn’t going to let him get away with not being embarrassed twice.

The next time, Blaine  _will_  be wearing a diaper.

Blaine doesn’t feel quite as guilty when he leaves the basement room this time, looking over his shoulder once to lock eyes with the blue-eyed puppet, silently reassuring it that he’ll be back.

It’s much easier to negotiate the house now that the electricity is switched on. Bulbs have sprung on everywhere, and whatever specters had been hiding in the shadows are banished by the light. Blaine comes out of the basement staircase and through the door to the dining room. He peeks down the hallway into the living room and sees the menacing shapes and silhouettes for what they are – toys and puppets and stuffed animals and junk.

With the flip of one switch, Blaine has brought the house to life and exorcised the demons.

“Okay,” he says, an added spring in his step as he heads to the upper level of the house, “I am going up the staircase. I believe you said the bedrooms are up here?” Blaine slips back into TV personality mode, more comfortable with his surroundings since he can see where he’s going.

“That would be correct,” Cooper answers. “There should be three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a door that leads to the attic.”

“I take it I’m going to the attic?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a distracted catch to Cooper’s voice. It’s not as teasing as before. Blaine tries to imagine what might be bothering him. This remodel is going to be Blaine’s last house for a while, and on top of that, it’s their most ambitious project house to date. If Blaine can help Cooper pull this off, it puts Cooper in line to make a worthwhile profit for his investment.

Blaine sees how that might be daunting, but his brother doesn’t buckle easily under pressure. It seems kind of odd for him to mellow out now.

Blaine reaches the top of the staircase and comes face-to-face with atrocious avocado-green carpet on the floor and faded pale-gold paint on the walls, but Cooper doesn’t rise to the challenge, and for the first time ever, Blaine fills in with the crude humor.

“My God, Coop. It looks like they hired the last guy who decorated your condo to do the upper level here,” Blaine jokes. “What was his name?”

“Hey, no hatin’ on Carlos,” Cooper says. “It was either let him decorate my condo or marry his sister.”

“Coop, Coop, Coop,” Blaine scolds with a tsk, “you need to learn when to keep it in your pants.” Blaine makes his way to the last door at the end of the hall – the door he assumes will lead to the attic. In a house this old, maybe there are possums nesting up there…or bats. That would bring the old Cooper back.

Blaine stops short. This house is seriously messing with his mind. What the hell is he thinking? He’s not going to contract rabies to cheer his brother up!

The attic turns out to be uneventful. It’s a smaller space than it appears from the outside. The door opens to a staircase that leads up to a tiny room, perfectly square, with neatly stacked boxes and a few older furnishings in storage. Cooper mentions nothing about selling them, nor does he do any Internet searches, which is a good thing. Blaine plans to bring this place back to its original splendor, and as many of the furnishings unique to the house that he can use, the better.

“Did you want me to check out these boxes, Coop?” Blaine asks, hanging around on the top stair and glancing them over, trying to find any writing that might indicate what’s inside. He sees some indecipherable scrawling (symbols, or maybe shorthand), but nothing he can decipher.

“Nah,” Cooper says. “This looks a little too normal for my taste. Let’s get to the bedrooms.”

“Still hoping for some mummified cats?” Blaine asks, bounding down the stairs.

“Aren’t I always?”

Blaine leaves the attic staircase and walks out into the hallway. He stops in front of the first door. He reaches for the doorknob, letting his fingers linger on the polished brass.

It winks up at him, gleaming, out of place in this house where every surface is covered in a thick layer of grunge.

“Are you getting any ideas for how we’re going to remake this disaster?” Cooper asks. “Or are you going to hire a decorator so you can have more quality time to spend with your creepy puppets?”

“I would like to bring it back to its original design scheme,” Blaine explains, brushing off Cooper’s _creepy puppet_ comment. “I figure that I’ll do some research, Google pictures of the house in its heyday, maybe hit up the historical society for advice. We have to clear out all the stuff first. That’s going to be the bulk of the work, but I won’t know for sure how labor intensive that’s going to be until I get a look at these bedrooms.”

“And why’s that, _Blainers_?” Cooper asks with a yawn. This instructive chitchat, necessary if the show has a prayer of being taken seriously, bores the hell out of Cooper, and he has no qualms about showing it.

“Because it’s my experience, _Coop_ , that the majority of the mess in a hoarder’s house can usually be found in the bed…rooms…”

Blaine turns the knob and pushes the door open, shoving it harder than he needs to, expecting to encounter a large mound of stuff blocking the entrance. The door flies open and Blaine falls forward, fumbling the webcam one-handed, but catching it before it hits the ground.

“Blaine?” Cooper calls through the earpiece. “Are you alright, squirt?”

“Yeah,” Blaine answers, righting the webcam so Cooper can see. “I kind of expected that door to be harder to open, but…”

His sentence cuts off again as he surveys the room.

“It’s…clean…” Cooper says, watching the view from Blaine’s webcam, staring at a room that has been surprisingly well kept.

 _Though_ _preserved_  seems like a more accurate term.

The room is decorated simply by modern standards, but it was probably considered stylish in its time. The bed in the far corner consists of a full-size mattress in a mahogany frame, a matching dresser and wardrobe standing against the wall by its side. Above the dresser hang pennants representing baseball teams in the American League – the Chicago White Sox, the Detroit Tigers, and the New York Giants. Alongside those pennants hangs a framed jersey that Blaine doesn’t recognize. It’s a cream-colored baseball jersey that, miraculously, doesn’t appear to have faded with age. Maroon pinstripes run vertically from shoulder to hem, the name  _Smythe_  sewn across the back.

The jersey doesn’t look like a professional jersey.

It looks like it was made for a child.

Above the pennants sits a baseball bat sealed in a wood-and-glass shadowbox.

“Look up there, Blaine,” Cooper says with a touch of awe. “Is that a genuine…”

“Louisville Slugger? It looks like it.” The bat is mounted high above Blaine’s head, too high for him to see it closely. He doesn’t want to step on any of the furniture, so he raises the webcam over his head for Cooper to get a better look.

Cooper gasps.

“It’s signed, Blainey! That might be Mel Ott’s signature.”

“That would make sense,” Blaine says. “He played for the New York Giants, and there’s a New York Giants pennant on the wall.”

Blaine hears Cooper typing on his computer again. “Let’s move along to the next room, Blaine. We may have _struck out_ in here, but I bet the _real_ catastrophe is next door.”

 _Struck out_ , Blaine thinks. _A baseball pun. Sigh…_

Blaine takes one final sweep of the bedroom with his webcam before he heads for the next room. Blaine sees another polished doorknob, and that confuses him. With all the clutter downstairs making it difficult to walk around, who would bother to come up here to clean the doorknobs? Or to keep that one room spotless?

Blaine doesn’t push as hard on this door when he opens it, and it, too, swings in effortlessly.

This bedroom is as clean as the one before. It has a similar mahogany bed, along with a matching dresser and wardrobe, but with a few additional touches. There’s a wicker dress form in the corner of the room, and a cherry wood sewing table next to it, an antique  _Singer_ sewing machine set into the top. There is no sports memorabilia on these walls. The walls in this room are covered in posters, framed like the ones downstairs, but the glass on these is spotless.

Blaine goes down the line of posters, reading off the names.

“ _Porgy and Bess…Arabella…The Eternal Road…_ these are old operas from the thirties,” Blaine remarks. He walks to the dresser, where a leather box covered in deep purple velvet sits. Using only his fingertips on the metal latch, he opens the lid and aims the webcam inside.

“So, a sewing box, a sewing machine, a mannequin… _thingie_ , theater posters…are we thinking a son and a daughter?”

“That’s a sexist assumption.” Blaine turns away from the dresser and walks toward the wardrobe, to root through the clothes and see if his brother might be right.

“True, but think about context, Blainey,” Cooper points out. “This stuff is from the thirties. If there was ever a time to be sexist…”

“You make a valid point,” Blaine interrupts, pulling a suit from the closet and carrying it to the bed to lay it out, “but I believe this room _might_ have belonged to a boy.”

“A boy into sewing and musical theater.” Cooper chuckles. “You two could have been friends.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, running his hand lightly over the expertly tailored suit – a suit that looks as if it has never been worn. “Maybe we could have.”

Blaine takes a moment longer gazing at it – the fine details, the even stitches, the amazing craftsmanship. This is a garment that was lovingly made, and has definitely withstood the test of time. It’s a shame it didn’t get any use.

“Okay,” Cooper says, clapping his hands hard, the sharp noise making Blaine wince, “you know what that means. The mess that we’re searching for is behind lucky door number three.”

Blaine grimaces. _That’s Cooper for you. A _lways hoping for those mummified cats.__

Blaine backs away from the bed, filming the handsome suit laying on it. A haze passes in front of his vision, and he suddenly sees an image of a young man standing before him – a man about his age - wearing that suit.

A man with fair skin, as fine as porcelain, and eyes bluer than the ocean - eyes holding such a depth of sadness that Blaine feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“Blaine?” Cooper’s voice cuts through, clearing the image from Blaine’s head like blowing away a wisp of smoke. “What’s wrong there, little bro?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Blaine asks, turning his head left and right, trying to find the heartbroken man in the suit. The suit is there on the bed, but the man is nowhere to be seen.

_Why did he look so familiar?_

“I mean, you made a sound like someone punched you in the gut. Are you okay? Did you run into something off camera? Because we talked about that…”

Cooper requires that all accidents be filmed - not for insurance purposes, but because it’s funny.

“N-no,” Blaine stammers, doing a full 360 to get one last look around. “No, I think I’ve been here a little too long, that’s all.”

“Well, we only have a few more rooms to go, and then you can go home and do the rest of the menial work. I’m not paying you for nothing, you know.”

Blaine scoffs. “In this case, you’re not paying me at all.”

“Exactly,” Cooper says, and Blaine can hear his brother’s irritating grin. “So get your tuchus moving.”

Blaine approaches the last bedroom, sure that Cooper is right. He’ll turn the knob, open the door, and something horrible will fall on him.

He doesn’t even want to consider what that horrible thing is likely to be.

Blaine wraps his fingers around the doorknob. This one’s polished too, but he’s concentrating so hard on formulating evasive maneuvers that he doesn’t notice. He turns the knob and pushes the door in, letting go so it can swing freely the rest of the way while he takes a huge step back.

But no avalanche follows him out into the hallway.

Blaine steps through the door to another pristine room. It, too, has a mahogany bed with matching dresser and wardrobe.

“ _Three_  children?” Cooper asks, but Blaine is already shaking his head.

“No,” Blaine replies, walking toward the dresser and a pile of overturned picture frames, shards of glass crunching underfoot. Blaine cautiously picks up one metal frame between his thumb and index finger. “Parent.” Blaine turns the frame over. The damage is extensive, so much so that the broken glass has torn straight through the photograph underneath.

All Blaine can tell is that the picture is black and white, and there are three people in it, but he can’t see their faces.

“Definitely a parent,” he repeats.

He turns over the frames, each one decimated, the glass smashed, the photographs desecrated beyond recognition. The trail of broken frames leads Blaine to a dark spot in the carpet, and a spattering of thicker, amber-colored glass pieces. Blaine crouches low to get a better look at it. The liquid has soaked through the carpet, all the way to the padding underneath.

No one even tried to clean it up.

A foot or so away from the stain, Blaine finds the neck of a liquor bottle.

“It seems like someone went on a bit of bender and did some damage,” Coopers says.

Blaine stands, his eyes fixed on the picture frames, the bottle neck, and all that glass. It reminds him of the scene in the basement room – the body parts, the fragments of porcelain everywhere, and the blue-eyed puppet staring up at him with longing.

Like the man in the suit.

Could this have happened the same night those puppets were destroyed?

Blaine walks away slowly, but he can’t stop staring at the glass, because the reality of it is all so horrible. These photographs, violated so senselessly, are horrible. The violence of this damage is horrible. This wasn’t an accident. Someone didn’t trip and fall into the dresser and knock these over. They were demolished out of anger.

“All of these bedrooms are…”

“Immaculate,” Blaine finishes.

“Yeah,” Cooper agrees with a disappointed sigh. “That bites. I was really hoping for a pizza box landslide at the very least.”

Blaine sucks in a shuddering breath as he sweeps the camera around, taking one last panoramic shot. He thinks about what it would take to push someone to do this. How much would a child have to disappoint their parents to make them want to obliterate the memory of their face?

Would going to the wrong college be enough?

“Let’s finish up downstairs so we can get you out of there,” Cooper suggests, mirroring Blaine’s thoughts from the past few hours.

Blaine backs out of the room, leaving the gut-wrenching scene behind him, and unlike the other two rooms, he shuts the door.

Blaine wants this to be over. He’s had enough.

He bypasses the upstairs bathroom, with surprisingly no complaints from Cooper, and hurries down the stairs to the dining room. He walks swiftly down the hallway and across the living room. He ignores the piles of toys and debris, not even thinking to put the mask back on his face as he breathes the foul air. He reaches the far end of the house – a section he overlooked earlier since he was so focused on not dying. This part of the house includes the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, and a guest/servant bedroom, but all three rooms are nothing but floor to ceiling toys without an inch of space to spare.

“Well, I think that’s it for your house,” Blaine says, his heart racing at the thought of gathering up his puppets and heading out of there as soon as possible. “Was there anything else you wanted to see?”

Cooper seems to wait a breath on purpose before he answers.

“You seem kind of anxious, Blaine. Do you have a hot date or something?”

“Nope.” Blaine starts taking obligatory background shots of the rooms on the lower level, working his way to the dining room. “Just eager to get started on your remodel. I have a lot of phone calls to make, emails to send out, plans to sketch…you know the drill.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never been so Johnny-on-the-Spot before. I would have stopped paying you sooner if I knew that was the way to get you to bust your ass.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, big brother.” Blaine stops at the dining room table, leaning his hip against it. “I want to hit the beach. Go work on my tan.”

“Well, you do that, Blainey-boy. Just make sure you’re back there bright and early in the morning.”

“Will, do, Coop.”

“And all of you out there in computer-landia, be sure to tune in…”

Blaine turns off the webcam. He disconnects the call in the middle of Cooper’s PSA, and pulls the Bluetooth out of his ear. With his index finger, he massages his sore ear canal, glad to be rid of the stupid thing. Blaine breathes in deep and exhales long, trying to will his aching muscles to relax.

When Blaine started helping Cooper film these walkthroughs, he was amazed at how exhausting wandering through a house could be. Add to that the anxiety of not knowing what God-awful thing you might find, along with constantly trying to be entertaining and informative, and sometimes Blaine thinks that Cooper isn’t paying him nearly enough.

Most of the time, when Blaine does a walkthrough of a project house, someone accompanies him – a relative of the past homeowner, a member of the fire department, one of Cooper’s contractors, the realtor – even if that person doesn’t show themselves on camera. This time around, Cooper didn’t want to consult the fire department just in case they declared the house unsafe ( _the bastard_ ), none of the contractors were available, there were no relatives to consult, and the realtor outright refused to come.

Blaine goes over the schedule for the rest of his day in his head. He still has so much work to do here. He has to move the puppets and some of the tools out to his minivan. He has about a dozen or more phone calls he has to make. He has to write up an itinerary and throw together some preliminary sketches.

Blaine can feel the aftermath of this walkthrough start to weigh heavily on his shoulders. So many of the houses he’s visited previously have had their fair share of ghosts, but this house seems to have them in spades. He shakes his head to clear his mind, letting the silence surrounding him bleed into his brain, and comes to an unnerving realization.

Without his brother’s voice in his ear, Blaine is completely and utterly alone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine lifts his gaze and peers down the cluttered hallway, swallowing his growing unease. As much as his brother’s voice becomes a canker when Blaine listens to it for too long, the idea of calling him back crosses his mind. Blaine knows he would be setting himself up for endless ribbing, but right now he needs something familiar to keep him company.

Blaine has been left alone in project houses before, but they were nothing like this one. Blaine is a sympathetic person, totally without meaning to be. It took him a long time to build up a thick skin to guard against the kind of grief and despair that comes with confronting a hoard in a foreclosed house, but a speck of that grief always seems to attach itself to him. The painful memories, the unfulfilled hopes, the broken dreams – they speak to him on a personal level. They are powerful, almost tangible entities, with minds of their own. He sloughs them off as best he can, he trains himself to be detached, but something inevitably clings to him, walking away with him, nagging at him all the way home.

He usually eradicates those demon emotions through rom-com marathons and buckets of popcorn mixed with peanut M&Ms, but he doesn’t see that working this time.

 _This_  house is unique.

Its long-forgotten treasures have found a way underneath his skin. He feels them accumulate with every breath in that he takes. The spirits of this house have wrapped their fingers around his heart and taken hold. If he doesn’t leave now, he’s afraid he’s not going to. He’ll simply sink into the swamp of its despair and become one with the piles of unopened toys and unfinished puppets.

Blaine isn’t convinced that there are enough sappy Kate Hudson and Meg Ryan movies in existence to set him free if that happens.

Blaine pushes himself off the table. He pockets his webcam and Bluetooth, and starts down the staircase that leads to the basement. He expects it to look like any other basement now that the lights are on, now that he’s walked through it and become familiar with everything inside, but an abrupt pang hits him in the chest when he sees the workshop again, especially when he eyes the open door to the room with the shattered puppets on the floor. He tries not to think too hard about it as he gets to work. He clears his mind of the smashed picture frames from upstairs and the demolished photographs they once held. He shoves away any thoughts of a possible connection between the atrocity in that bedroom and the abused puppets in the basement.

He tries, but he doesn’t necessarily succeed.

Blaine finds two worn cardboard boxes in the workshop that only have a handful of things in them. He moves those to another fuller box and carries the empty boxes into the room. He decides to pack the puppets separately, putting the pieces for the blue-eyed puppet in one box, and the pieces for the green-eyed puppet in the other.

Blaine is eager to move the blue-eyed puppet first, but its head and body are made entirely of porcelain. They’re brittle and cracked. He’s afraid that the contents shifting around in the box while he drives might cause further damage. In the basement, he sees nothing to wrap the pieces with. There are bolts of fabric in the workshop, but with their age and the moisture all around, he’s not sure that they aren’t molded through and won’t disintegrate the second he unrolls them, releasing mold and filth and general grossness into the air. He has some towels and blankets in the van, but he doesn’t want to waste time doubling back up the stairs empty handed. So he begrudgingly starts with the green-eyed puppet, whose parts are made of wood, and less likely to break.

He decides to stack the puppet limbs first, then torso, and finally the head, to minimize any potential scratches. He bends down to retrieve the first piece – an arm. His fingers barely touch it when an arc of blue electricity shoots out from the limb like a great tentacle, spiraling around his fingertips. Blaine jerks back, catching himself before his foot comes down hard on one of the porcelain limbs. Blaine’s heart pounds against his ribcage, but he’s startled more than hurt. He rubs his hand to diffuse the burning tingle in his skin. He stares at the wooden limb, waiting for it to move or for another arc of electricity to dart out and grab his ankle this time, or his leg. His body shakes with anticipation, but the limb remains dormant. Blaine looks at his fingertips, certain that he’ll see scorch marks left behind, but his skin looks unharmed. Blaine moves his hand back and forth in front of his face, wiggling his fingers and flexing his joints.

There are no marks on his skin, but there’s a definite aftertaste in his mouth. It’s an unusual mixture of anger, bitterness, and a sense of resentment so strong, it refuses to go away. He runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth and swallows over and over, but the flavor hangs on tight.

“What the hell was that?” Blaine asks out loud, subconsciously expecting Cooper to interject a snarky remark, but his question gets answered only by silence. The shaking in Blaine’s muscles dies down to a subtle tremble as the adrenaline level in his body drops. “O- _kay_ …” He approaches the limb again like he’s addressing a frightened dog. “I’m going to pick you up now. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take you home with me and fix you up. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Blaine brushes the limb with his fingertips, then snatches them back, bracing for the stinging fork of electricity.

But nothing happens.

He touches the limb once more, then tentatively wraps his fingers around it, picks it up, and puts it in the box. He does the same with the next limb, testing it out with a graze of his fingertips before grabbing it and placing it beside its mate. He packs the remaining body parts this way, glad that Cooper and his audience can’t see this ritual. His mind reels, trying to come up with a logical explanation. He assumes that the friction of his shoes on the carpet, coupled with the dust on his clothes, must have caused the shock.

He’ll overlook the fact that the stream of electricity wrapped itself around his fingers like a lasso.

He picks up the puppet’s torso, bending it at the waist to fit it into the box. Finally, he picks up the head, holding it with both hands. His eyes unintentionally meet the green-eyed stare of the puppet. Blaine hears an ominous crackling in his ears, and he freezes. The electricity isn’t there, but the anger is, the bitterness, and the resentment. It pulses through his body like a ripple and carries with it a phantom voice that is less of a physical sound than a feeling.

_You were a mistake! A horrible mistake! You did this! Everything…it’s all your fault!_

Blaine drops the head in the box. He doesn’t mean to, but it flies from his grasp as if it was batted out of his hands. It lands face down on the torso of the puppet with a loud  _clunk_. He would have rather not dropped it, but he’s glad he doesn’t have those eyes staring up at him.

If he had to personify this puppet in the same absurd way he’s done to everything else, he’d say it doesn’t seem to like him.

Blaine folds the flaps of the box loosely shut over the top and picks it up in his arms. It’s lighter than he predicted, but a hell of a lot clumsier. He woefully misjudged the structural integrity of the box. The bottom is not completely secure. It bows outward, and the flimsy cardboard feels like it’s falling apart in his hands.

“Please don’t break, please don’t break, please don’t break, please don’t break,” Blaine chants as he rushes out of the room, through the workshop, and up the stairs. He keeps on chanting as he picks the fastest route through the living room and out the front door.

The sunlight burns his eyes, forcing them shut. He turns his head into a shadow created by the box in his arms, and blinks a few times to get his eyes to readjust to the outdoors. They water like crazy, dusty tears stinging and streaming down his cheeks, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He gets to his van and slides the box onto the roof, sighing with relief that it didn’t dissolve along the way. He reaches into his pocket and grabs his keys to unlock the passenger side door. Ignoring the puppet for a second, he dives into the glove box and rummages through it for a tissue to wipe his face. He gently dabs the inside corners of his eyes, then swipes his forehead, his cheeks, and his chin.

“Ugh,” he groans when he pulls it away from his skin and sees a brown film staining the white tissue. He grabs another tissue and wipes down his ears and his neck, feeling more normal now that his skin isn’t itchy from the gunk on it. He’s still going to have to do some serious deep cleaning of his pores when he gets home, but in the meantime, this is a relief.

He blinks a couple times more until his eyes feel less gritty and he can keep them open for longer than half a second. Then he opens the door to the back seat. He decides to put the puppets in the seats and the tools in the trunk; the puppets have a better chance of staying safe without the threat of heavy tools crashing into them during an unforeseen brake check. He slides the decaying cardboard box off the roof and into the seat on the passenger side, reserving the seat behind the driver for the blue-eyed puppet.

Yeah, he might be taking this to a weird place.

Blaine sets the box in the center of the seat and gives it a shake to make sure it won’t slip off. As an extra measure, he pushes the front passenger seat back as far as he can to wedge the box in. He stands back and takes a look. Thank God the rental car place ran out of sedans and upgraded him to a minivan. Blaine resisted the idea that he was driving a _mom vehicle_ for as long as he could, but now he can’t help but be glad that he has all this extra room. It would stink to have to make more than one trip from this house to the beach house and back.

Confident that he’s done everything he can to keep the wooden puppet safe, he closes the doors, leaving them unlocked since he doesn’t want to fumble for his keys when he returns with the more fragile porcelain puppet. Besides, he hasn’t seen a soul around all day. He doubts that anyone is skulking about, scoping out his van. And really, in a neighborhood of half-a-million dollar homes, who’s going to steal a damaged cardboard box filled with broken puppet pieces?

He rounds to the rear and opens the hatch, searching for anything he can find that might help him protect the porcelain puppet. He finds the blanket and towels that he keeps on hand for impromptu trips to the beach, gathers them up in his arms, and heads back into the house, his footsteps slower and his breathing easier since he’s had a rejuvenating moment of fresh air and Southern California sunshine. It inspires him to leave the front door of the house open to get air flowing through the rooms.

A silly notion occurs to him as he heads through the living room, swiftly dodging hazards and circumventing obstacles, his feet having already memorized the way. With the door left open and the light streaming in through the windows, the house seems to breathe.

He climbs down the staircase for the third time that day. It’s becoming old hat, but in the back of his mind he knows that the sun will set in a few short hours, and he’s not foolhardy enough to be anywhere near this house after dark, lights on or no.

He passes through the workbenches and into the back room where the porcelain puppet waits to join its friend.

 _His_.

 _His_  friend.

Blaine can’t refer to this puppet as  _it_  any longer.

It doesn’t feel right.

Blaine clears a spot for himself on the carpet and kneels down, disheartened by the sound of crunching beneath his knees. He wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans, examining the piece in front of him. It’s an arm, its surface marred by hairline cracks running every which way, emanating from an impact to the forearm and webbing out in multiple directions. It’s a painful-looking break, but regardless, the beauty of this one piece cannot be denied. Whoever fired this puppet paid a tremendous amount of attention to getting the tint of the matte glaze _just_ right. There are subtle variations in the pigmentation so that the skin tone isn’t one solid color. Aside from that, finer details have been added – strokes of chestnut-colored paint that give the appearance of hair, a sprinkling of freckles, even a slash of silvery-white that looks like it was meant to be a scar.

All that time, all that work - ruined.

Blaine smiles.

 _Not anymore_ , he thinks. Not when he can fix this.

He reaches for the arm, but pauses with his fingers hovering an inch or so away. He marvels at the contrast between his own tan hand and the glaze on the puppet that resembles soft, human skin, wondering if this puppet might shock him, too. Even though he has no evidence to the contrary, he doesn’t believe this puppet will hurt him.

He doesn’t believe this puppet  _wants_  to hurt him.

Blaine lowers his fingertips to the porcelain arm. He runs them delicately up the forearm, stopping at the huge break.

“Don’t worry,” Blaine whispers. “I’m going to fix that. I promise.”

The task of moving this puppet’s body is more time consuming and exasperating than the last. Every piece he picks up splinters into smaller pieces, and Blaine becomes terrified that if he keeps this up he won’t have anything but powder left. Blaine moves the arm at a mind-numbingly slow pace, centimeter by excruciating centimeter, until he gets it into position. He wraps it in a towel and puts it in the box, followed by a leg, then the other leg. But the next arm he touches nearly crumbles to dust. He picks up as many of the large chunks and fragments as he can, hoping that he can find a resin that will sufficiently fill in the holes. He doesn’t think he can replicate the intricate hand-painting, but he’s going to try. The torso is tricky to manage with the head still attached. The neck joint rattles, and when Blaine picks up the puppet’s body, cradling it in his arms like a wounded child, the head lolls to one side, then rolls to face away. Blaine sees a gap separating the head from the neck, which widens when he lifts the puppet higher.

“Nononononono,” he mumbles anxiously, laying the puppet back down.

He knows he can’t _lift_ the puppet onto the blanket, so he decides to slide him on. He lays the blanket out on the carpet as close to the puppet as he can, inching the fabric underneath the body as much as he dares. He stops when the body is half on, half off the blanket.

Blaine blushes when he sees the exquisite puppet lying on his blanket like a lover waiting for him. The body may be broken, and one eye missing, but he’s still an outstandingly handsome young man.

Blaine cups his hands beneath the lower part of the torso (under the puppet’s  _ass,_  technically) and slides him further on. He knows Cooper thinks he’s crazy for trading his salary to rescue this broken puppet, but what his brother doesn’t understand is that Blaine and this puppet have something in common - Blaine is broken, too. He’s about as incomplete as they come. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he works, there’s something missing. He feels it. He’s sure people can see it when they look at him.

His parents definitely do.

Missing a few parts here and there isn’t the worst thing that can happen to someone.

Being forgotten, disappearing entirely, _that’s_ the worst thing.

Blaine slips a hand beneath the puppet’s shoulder and another behind his head, lifting him ever so gently and relocating him the final distance.

“Just a few more inches,” Blaine says in a soothing voice, “and we’ll wrap you up and put you in the box.” Blaine gazes at the puppet’s face, into his single good eye. He smiles wider as he lays the puppet on the blanket, but his hand beneath the puppet’s head starts to feel warm. It begins at a spot in the center of Blaine’s palm and radiates like a single ray of golden sunshine. It’s liquid heat, pouring into his veins, shooting out to his fingers, filling his body up like a cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s day.

His eyes are open, his mind awake, but the haze returns. It obscures his vision in a veil of white mist. It drifts in front of his eyes. He can only peek through in random spots where it thins, revealing shimmering images that disappear like the dreams you hold on to in those seconds right before you wake.

 _“Can you feel that?”_ Blaine hears his own voice whispering inside his head.

 _“I do,”_  another voice replies. It’s high and lilting, pure as silk and singing in his ears.

 _“What does it feel like?”_  

_“It feels like…like summer all over my body…”_

Blaine laughs, pressing his lips to cool skin. _“And what else?”_

A giggle answers him in that same musical voice. _“It feels like…”_

The voice gasps, and Blaine feels his body tighten.

 _“It feels like you,”_  the voice whimpers breathlessly.  _“Everything is you…all around me…it’s you…”_

Blaine closes his eyes as the world collapses in on him. Behind his eyelids he can see another set of eyes gazing back at him – perfect blue eyes, patient blue eyes, loving blue eyes that shift to grey and glimmer like rare jewels. Quivering pink lips smile at him, part, and then whisper a single, blissfully choked-off word.

“ _Blaine_ …”

Blaine’s eyelids snap open. He’s staring into the puppet’s eye, forehead pressed against the one spot of flawless ceramic on his face - at the juncture between his eyebrows. Blaine’s breathing comes in heavy pants, his face burning hot, his stomach muscles clenching.

“Jesus…Christ,” he mutters. “What…the hell’s…wrong…with me?” Blaine eases the puppet the rest of the way onto the blanket, then wraps him up and lifts him into the box, closing the flaps on top. “Hallucinogenic mold spores,” Blaine babbles, “in the water on the walls…absorbs into the skin…hear about it all the time…” He rambles his way up the stairs and into the dining room, down the hallway, and out the front door. “I’m going to bed the second I get home. There’s no way I got enough sleep. No more late night movie marathons for me.”

This cardboard box is sturdy, and he feels a peculiar comfort in holding it against his chest. He opens the door behind the driver’s seat and sets the box down, contemplating buckling it in for extra protection. He doesn’t want it to slide around while he drives, but he’s afraid the seatbelt will tighten and crush the box with the puppet inside.

He can’t decide, too befuddle to think straight about anything because Blaine can still feel it – someone else’s voice in his head, someone else’s body pressed against his, someone else’s skin beneath his lips, and those eyes…

Blaine wants to look into those eyes and lose himself for as long as possible.

He closes the door without making a decision, figuring the puppet is safe for now while he gets the rest of the supplies he needs. Since he doesn’t assume he’ll need any of the big table saws and such, he hopes only one more trip will do it. The sky has gone from bright to golden as the sun starts to sink towards the horizon.

He wants to be on the road soon.

Back into the house and down the steps to the basement he goes. He clears out one more box and collects the tools quickly. He also grabs paintbrushes, tubes of glue, pots of resins and waxes, bottles of lacquers and shellacs, and different varieties of paints. If he has the tools the original puppet maker used, maybe he can come close to copying the artist’s technique.

This box, by far, is the heaviest of the three, and Blaine struggles under its weight. He’s not about to complain, seeing as he managed to fit everything in it, but climbing up the stairs becomes a complicated waltz of leaning against the wall, stepping up, shifting his weight, turning sideways toward the opposite wall, and stepping up again. He grunts with each step, and twice he almost leans backward too far, but when he reaches the top, he crows with triumph.

“You see that?” he says out loud to himself, balancing the box on his upper thigh so he can shake out his numb hands one at a time. “All in one trip…”

Blaine shuffles across the greasy linoleum, skidding forward on a spot that’s slick with a dollop of prehistoric lard, and collides with the dining room table. He doesn’t see the table tip, turn ninety degrees, and then slam back on its legs, blocking the entrance to the hallway, but he hears the shower of newspapers fall to the floor, followed by a dull  _thunk_.

Blaine takes a blind step forward and runs into the table. It cuts him off at the waist and knocks the air out of him.

Blaine groans.

“Great. That’s just…great.” He sets the heavy box on the table and grabs the lip of the wood, pulling the table away. He sees the newspapers scattered in the entryway, and on top of them, a photo album - overturned and open, pages down, with several loose photos peeking out from underneath the cover.

He might have ignored it, picked up his box and stepped over the album on his way out to the van, but a face peering up at him stops everything.

It stops the breeze in the house blowing.

It stops the world turning.

It nearly stops his heart.

Blaine bends over the album, looking at the face with light greyish skin and darker grey eyes smiling up at him. But Blaine knows those drab hues hide skin of creamy alabaster, and eyes of cornflower blue. Blaine reaches down and slides the photo out from between the pages.

The man in the photo looks exactly like the man Blaine saw wearing the suit.

Those eyes, those lips – they were waiting for Blaine behind his eyelids.

But he also looks like Blaine’s beautiful, broken puppet.

“Who were you?” Blaine whispers, tracing the man’s eyes, his brows, the slope of his nose, his perfect mouth. “And what are you doing here?”

Blaine gazes at the photograph, looking his fill till he has every line of the man’s smiling face memorized. He slips the photograph back into the book, then makes a split-second decision to take the album with him. He had told Cooper he would take everything he needed to fix the puppets. His blue-eyed puppet was built to look like this man; he can feel it. Therefore, he needs the photos to repair him.

Shadows grow long in the hallway as the sun sets further, and as far as Blaine is concerned, that’s his cue to leave. He sticks the rest of the photos between the pages and closes the album, shoving it into the box. He picks up the cardboard box, now with the photo album inside, and beats a hasty retreat.

He steps through the front door, stopping momentarily to lock it.

“Okay,” he says, continuing to walk and talk to himself like he’s still doing the walkthrough with Cooper, “I’ll take all this home and then…”

Blaine is a foot away from the van when he notices something out of place. The box in the passenger seat, the one containing the parts of the wooden puppet, has tipped over to the left. It’s stuck in the aisle between the seats, leaning against the box on the other side.

“How in the hell…”

Blaine walks up to the window to get a better look. He has no idea how it could have happened, but it doesn’t look like anything has fallen out. He just considers himself lucky that whatever did this didn’t knock over the other box instead. He sandwiches the box of tools between his body and the side of the van, and pulls the door handle.

It’s locked.

“Huh…”

Blaine walks the box to the back of the car. He opens the hatch, sets the box down, then closes the hatch again. He walks around to the passenger door on the street side and pulls at the handle.

It’s locked, too.

He goes back around and tries all of the doors again.

With the exception of the hatch, every single one of them is locked.

Blaine doesn’t want to try and explain this one. He just wants to go home.

He fishes out his keys, unlocks the driver’s side door, and climbs into the front seat. He climbs over to the second row of seats and fixes the box, repositioning it the way he had it so that it doesn’t slide again.

He gives it a shake, trying to figure out how it might have moved, but wedged behind the front passenger seat, it doesn’t budge an inch.

“I just…I just need to get out of here,” Blaine admits to himself. “I can’t…ugh…”

Blaine goes back to the driver’s seat and buckles in. He takes a look around – at the street, at the other houses, at the marbled azure-and-champagne gold sky above, at the collection of cars parked by the curb that weren’t there before, their owners tucked somewhere inside their houses, yet to make an appearance.

He doesn’t look back at the house when he drives away, letting its maniacal, mismatched paint job fade to black as he turns the corner and heads for the Interstate.

***

It’s late when Blaine pulls into the driveway of the beach house. The indigo sky has ultimately consumed the last rays of summer evening sun, and a long line of arc sodium lights casts an unattractive orange glow on the concrete sidewalk. Blaine hears the ocean waves crashing onto the sand from where he sits in the van with the windows wide open. He had to open them ten minutes in to the trip to flood the van with cold air when his eyelids sagged and his head nodded. He cheated at dinner, stopping by an  _In ‘n Out_  drive thru for a burger and a milkshake, which he ate on the road despite his own personal beliefs regarding eating while driving.

His muscles ache and his brain screams with exhaustion, but there’s no way he’s going to sleep anytime soon.

Still gathering his strength to move those boxes one more time, he pulls his cell phone out of the center console and starts composing a text. At the rate he’s going, Blaine will never get to the dozens of calls he was supposed to make this evening, but he can at least schedule _one_ thing.

Blaine sends a text to his brother’s connection in the collectibles business, Gary Shepton. Blaine had never heard of the man before he arrived in San Diego, but from what he could grasp during conversations with appraisers he worked with at the other houses, Gary is apparently _the_ guy to call in Southern California for anything toy related. Buying, selling, and refurbishing toys is not just a job to Gary; it’s a passion. One that he takes _very_ seriously. Gary was heartbroken when the Happy Meal toys in the last house turned out to be junk. Blaine is pretty sure Gary will have kittens when he sees all those toys mint in their boxes, stacked ceiling high. He shoots off the message and gets an immediate response. It’s so quick that Blaine wonders if Cooper didn’t already clue Gary in, and he’s been waiting by his phone the whole day for Blaine to contact him.

Either way, Gary will be at the project house at nine in the morning, hell or high water.

It takes Blaine nearly an hour to unload the van. He chooses the dining room table as his base of operations, and uses the loveseat and the sofa in the recessed living room as a staging area to organize the puppet pieces. He unloads the puppets first since he would feel guilty about leaving them in the van while he unloads the box of supplies. He starts with the box containing the blue-eyed puppet, then the green-eyed one, and finally the tools. He lays out a cloth on the dining room table to protect the wood from the tools as he lays them out. A lot of them he recognizes, but some of them he has no idea what they would be for. Most of those unexplained ones appear to be homemade. Whoever made the puppets also made the tools they needed to put them together.

Conceivably, he could stop there, but he doesn’t, taking the time to organize each puppet and lay it out in order so that by the time he’s done, he has a visual of how everything will fit together in the end.

The green-eyed puppet gets the loveseat, while the blue-eyed puppet gets the couch.

It’s two in the morning before Blaine locks the door to the house and declares himself done. He looks at everything he has spread out between the dining room table and the living room sofa – the puppet pieces, the various tools, the army of bottles, jars, and tubs, and wonders what he has gotten himself into. Why did he want to do this again? Is it worth throwing away his commission on this project, especially when he has more pressing matters to deal with? Blaine looks at the face of the blue-eyed puppet and sighs.

He doesn’t have any words to explain it, but yes. The answer is yes. It  _is_  worth it.

Now if he could only figure out _why_.

He’s exhausted and elated and confused and eager, but his urgency to get the puppets started seems to have lessened now that he has them home and safe. He decides to retire to his bedroom, but when he reaches the door, he notices specks of dust on his clothes. He remembers the dank basement, the motes floating through the air, the possibility of black mold hiding in wait for him, clinging to his outfit all day long. He turns right around and heads back through the living room to the mud room on the opposite side of the house. He undresses, peeling off layer after layer of spore infested clothing, and stuffs them straight into the laundry machine. He measures out a capful of detergent and pours it in, then pours in another capful for good measure, setting the whole thing on heavy duty deep clean. He pads back across the living room, naked except for his boxer briefs. Halfway across the room, he gets that feeling again – the one that sets every hair on end.

The distinct, very real feeling that someone is watching him.

He looks straight towards the windows with their translucent curtains drawn. Even though they let in a great deal of the outdoor light, they do an excellent job of obscuring the view from outside.

He turns and takes a peek at the puppet heads lying beside their disassembled bodies on the sofa and loveseat. They’re just as he left them except…the green eyes of the wooden puppet seem to have shifted.

Are they looking directly at him?

Blaine stares, leaning forward, almost challenging the eyes to do something, and then shakes his head. They probably settled in that position, because there is no way that those eyes are following him.

Blaine heads back to his room, and with one wary eye staring out into the living room, he closes and locks his door.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Blaine doesn’t go to bed when he leaves the puppets and locks himself in his room. He’s waited too long to take a shower. He can feel the bacteria crawling across his skin. He walks straight to his private bathroom, turns the shower to hot, and stands beneath the spray, not even flinching when the scorching water beats down on his skin. He wants to shut his mind off and put the day to rest. He hopes that the hot water, practically burning him, turning his skin red and splotchy where it touches, will give him something else to think about, but, as it turns out, it isn’t enough to erase all of the unnerving weirdness he experienced.

When the day had started, Blaine was ready to go through the motions of filming another house for his brother, and being humiliated before a live Internet audience. He had put on his favorite music to get into the right mindset, and had chosen his clothes carefully, building up his armor from the inside out. He had looked forward to the end of it, when all he had to do was come home and work out the finer details.

That seemed like ages ago.

Now that that day was over and a new one beginning (he hates to admit it, but one look at the time on his phone before he stepped into the bathroom proves that it’s true), he is stuck trying to resolve a multitude of feelings at war within him. In his living room are two puppets – one of which he is starting to have unorthodox feelings for, and another he believes wants to hurt him.

Blaine laughs out loud when that thought enters his head.

He can picture himself in a few years, bouncing from his brother’s terrible renovation show to  _TLC’s My Strange Addiction_. His story can probably top that guy who admitted to having a sexual relationship with his car.

Blaine adjusts the water temperature to a less lethal level before third-degree burns can set in. He leans his forehead against the cool, damp tile, and closes his eyes, trying to imagine himself in a make-shift studio confessional, sitting on a red chintz sofa in front of a brown, sponge-painted wall, explaining how this demented relationship started – how he gave away his dreams of going to NYADA and becoming a performer on stage and screen because he fell in love with a puppet he found in the basement of a foreclosed house.

But the tail end of a dry laugh dies on his lips when he sees those eyes again – shimmering blue eyes that darken with desire as they gaze up at him through long, chestnut-colored lashes. Quivering pink lips whisper his name over and over like a chant. He can hear the voice in his head as clear as he can hear the shower water pattering against the tile.

_Blaine…Blaine…_

Blaine visualizes himself kissing those lips, claiming them for his own. They part for him, surrender to him. Beneath Blaine’s fingertips, unbelievably soft skin trembles at his touch – impossibly smooth skin…almost like porcelain.

Blaine hears himself moan. He feels his cock twitch, and his eyes pop open. He looks down at himself, and freezes with revulsion.

It isn’t the daydream that bothers him. It’s feeling his hands creep down his chest, heading toward an uninvited erection, that makes Blaine begin to feel creepy and pathetic.

In a last minute attempt to rectify the situation, he switches over to his go-to masturbatory fantasy, starring Adam Levine wearing a whole lot of leather, but it doesn’t work.

The battle lost, he turns off the hot water completely and lets the cold water take a turn at torturing him. He pounds the tile with his fist and grits his teeth, watching his boner die a painful, frigid death. When he has cooled off entirely, and those blue eyes no longer appear when he closes his eyes, he shuts off the shower and steps out of the tub.

His eyelids hang heavily over his bleary eyes, and he figures falling asleep will be simple at this point. He’ll close his eyes, and his sleep-starved body will simply drag him under. He gets dressed in a heather grey t-shirt and plaid sleep pants, and climbs into bed. He pulls his comforter up around his shoulders, all the way to his neck, tucking himself in tight. He feels so warm and cozy. The next few hours of sleep promise to feel so damn good. But the moment his head touches his pillow, he catches an unexpected second wind…then a third…and a fourth.

Blaine stretches out on his stomach, his arms crossed beneath his pillow. He closes his eyes, but a second later, he opens them and flips on to his back, crossing his arms over his chest. His head sinks deep into his pillow, but not in the way that he wants. He flips over again, this time on to his side, his head resting on his hands, but that’s no good either. He growls through clenched teeth, voicing his frustration to the darkness.

But there’s no one to hear; no one to help.

His body is exhausted beyond compare but his mind is infuriatingly wide awake. If he can only find a comfortable spot, his brain might get the hint and switch off. He twists and turns, at one point switching ends entirely, laying with his head where his feet should be, which feels so unnatural it actually turns out to be a step backward. Regardless of what position he tries, one thing stays the same - he keeps his eyes glued to his locked bedroom door.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he berates himself. He tries to exhaust himself by focusing on inane things. His eyes sweep his room and the few things in it – an Ikea desk, with a lamp and his laptop on it; a three-drawer dresser with only the first two drawers filled; the door to his closet; the door to the bathroom; and the bunk bed he’s sleeping in, with a full size mattress on the bottom, and a twin size bunk positioned perpendicularly above him. Blaine hasn’t slept in this room in forever. The  _Gargoyles_  and  _Sonic the Hedgehog_  posters on the wall attest to how long it’s been. But in the last few weeks that he’s been here, it’s begun to feel like home.

He likes the independence. He likes doing things for himself. He likes feeling competent.

But he doesn’t like being alone.

He sweeps his eyes back around, stopping on the clock radio on his desk.

_3:59 A.M._

Blaine rolls his eyes and groans when he sees the time. It can’t possibly _that_ early in the morning. He hasn’t even closed his eyes yet! He flicks his gaze over to the clock again, just to be sure.

_4:00 A.M._

“Ugh!”

Blaine thrashes out, pounding his fists on the mattress and kicking his legs until his blanket tumbles off on to the floor.

“Fuck!”

Blaine isn’t normally a fan of cursing, but this particular bout of insomnia seems to warrant at least one four-letter obscenity. Today is going to be a big day, and he doesn’t need to spend it stumbling around like a zombie.

He suddenly thinks about what happened in the basement – the arc of lightning, the visions, the disembodied voices in his head. He hears a noise he’s certain came from the living room, and his eyelids fly open, no longer heavy.

Okay, maybe zombie _isn’t_ the best comparison he could have thought up.

Maybe he _is_ being ridiculous about all this, but recognizing that isn’t going to calm his mind enough to let him sleep. He stops fighting and lies awake, staring at his door, waiting for the dawn. While he does, Blaine lets his brain wander off on tangents of its own, touring the Victorian house in his mind. It astonishes him that he has so much of the layout memorized. Blaine thought for sure he’d end up have nightmares about that room in the basement, but his thoughts keep returning to the upstairs bedrooms.

He does his best to ignore the room with the broken picture frames and focuses on the other two rooms – rooms created for two completely different young men in a house that both celebrates and mourns childhood. Piles of toys and filth down below, memories crusted over by time, while upstairs, everything is immaculate - polished brass doorknobs, a Little League jersey mounted under glass, that exquisite suit hung up in the closet, the vintage sewing machine that probably works perfectly.

And that man with the sad eyes.

The same man who has already popped up in two unbidden fantasies.

A man who is unlike anyone Blaine has ever seen.

A man that Blaine  _needs_  to see again.

Blaine sighs. He’s never going to get to sleep this way, so he might as well start the day. He climbs out of bed, grumbling under his breath as he scoots off the mattress and puts his feet on the floor. He picks his blanket up from where it landed at the foot of his bed, shoves his pillow underneath his arm, and trundles off to the living room. He reaches the bedroom door and stops, halted by the dark wood, which reminds him of the green-eyed puppet. His heart speeds up, his hand hovering over the doorknob, intrusive thoughts filling his head. He doesn’t know what he’ll find in the living room. What if something he brought back from the house has moved on its own? Specifically, what if the green-eyed puppet has moved off the loveseat? What if it’s not in the living room?

What if it’s found the knives in the kitchen?

“They’re just ordinary puppets, Blaine,” he grumbles, knowing deep down inside that’s a lie. He’s not entirely ruling out the idea that he came in contact with some biological hallucinogenic inside that Victorian house, but those puppets are  _far_  from ordinary. He bites his tongue and unlocks the door, opening it and walking out into the living room in the same nonchalant way he would if he didn’t have possibly supernatural puppets lying around. He tries not to pay too much attention to them. He can see from the corner of his eye that the puppet pieces are right where he left them, the green-eyed puppet on the loveseat and the blue-eyed puppet on the sofa, but with one tiny exception. He had gone off to bed with them facing each other, but now, the blue-eyed puppet’s head seems to have turned away.

Blaine makes a point of not noting that detail. Maybe the two puppets  _weren’t_  facing each other when he went to bed. Or maybe something completely plausible happened that could have caused the puppet’s head to move. It could be a side effect of his walking heavily across the floor, or the porcelain head settling into the couch cushion, or a minor Southern California tremor that he didn’t notice.

There. Three normal, reasonable, and in no way supernatural, possibilities.

Blaine lays out his blanket and pillow on the floor beside the sofa, ignoring the feeling of eyes on his person, knowing rationally that this is all part of some strange, acquired phobia left over from being trapped in that depressing house all day long.

He walks over to the dining room table and finds the photo album. He picks it up and turns back to his blanket, jumping when he catches the green eyes of the wooden puppet glowing eerily in the light streaming in from outside. He chuckles at getting spooked, putting a hand to his speeding heart, but then furrows his brow in confusion…and stops laughing. The puppet had been looking straight at the sofa a second before, but now its eyes are staring directly at him. They can’t be following him, Blaine thinks logically, but the way they’re painted, they seem to. It’s the same phenomenon people experience with velvet paintings of Jesus…or Elvis.

Silly or not, he’s never going to be comfortable in here with those eyes staring in his direction.

Blaine puts down the album and pulls off his t-shirt, laying it over the wooden puppet’s head and tucking the fabric around it. He starts to feel physically lighter with the off-putting face and eyes covered. He makes his way back to the blanket, album in hand. He lies down on his stomach with his pillow shoved beneath his chest and the album flat in front of him. He flips open the cover and turns to the first page - a soft, black, rectangular sheet of aging paper that bends in the middle with the weight of the photograph on the other side. He turns it over and sees a single picture, beside which are the ghosts of spaces where others had been but had fallen out over time when the glue that held them to the pages disintegrated. This first photo is a black and white image of a beautiful young woman, smiling at the camera while holding a swaddled, sleeping newborn baby in her arms. The picture on the page opposite is of the same woman, sitting in a chair with an older baby on her lap. He turns the page again, and again, but the next two sets of pages are devoid of photographs. He flips ahead and finds a place in the album where some of the lost photos had been stuck into the spine.

He plucks the first photograph out and there he is – the young man with the blue eyes. He’s younger in this picture than the man in the suit that Blaine saw, but there’s no mistaking the curve of his mouth, the delicate slope of his nose, or his hair, styled high in the front, probably making him a whole three inches taller than his natural height. On a whim, Blaine flips the picture over. In the bottom right hand corner, written on the diagonal in fading pencil are the words:  _Kurt – age 14_.

Blaine squints at the handwriting. It seems oddly familiar. It’s sloppy and rough - all edges and few curves - like symbols more than actual letters.

“Kurt,” Blaine says aloud. He turns to the puppet lying on the couch. With his head settled in its current position, the puppet’s one eye seems to look straight at Blaine. Blaine smiles up at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kurt.”

Blaine replaces the photo and pulls out another one. It’s 14-year-old Kurt again, standing beside an older gentleman. The older man has an arm draped across Kurt’s shoulder. He’s smiling at Kurt proudly while Kurt beams at the camera. Blaine turns the photo over, curious as to the identity of the older man, but all that’s written there are the words  _Me and Kurt_.

“Must be his dad,” Blaine mutters, putting this second photograph back beside the first and grabbing another.

There are two young men in this one. They look remarkably similar, but Blaine finds Kurt right away. This Kurt is slightly older, but still not the age of the Kurt he saw in the suit. Blaine’s gaze shifts to the man standing beside him. His eyes go wide.

_Could it be?_

He holds the picture close to his nose, angling it toward the light to get a better look.

_Oh my…_

Blaine’s eyes snap up for a second in the direction of the lump on the loveseat, covered by his grey t-shirt. Blaine flips the photo over. On this one also, at the bottom, are words scrawled in faded pencil.

_Kurt – age 16_

_Sebastian – age 17_

The green-eyed puppet finally has a name.

 _Sebastian_.

Blaine peers at the picture, a swirl of jealousy pooling in his stomach at these two men standing side by side. Not that Blaine _should_ feel jealous, he reminds himself. They were probably brothers. Blaine examines Sebastian closely, trying to pinpoint the familial resemblance.

Sebastian  _was_  handsome; Blaine will give him that. This photograph gives Blaine the impression that Sebastian was excessively proud. He’s standing straight and tall in way that’s looks like he’s trying to prove he’s taller than Kurt, which he was, but only by about an inch. A mischievous smirk pulls at his lips, almost as if he’s mocking Blaine…or whoever was behind the camera’s viewfinder. But Blaine has a suspicion that his demeanor might have been something of a front. He gets a sense from this photograph that underneath that cocky visage lies deep discontentment. It’s visible in the rigid set of his shoulders, and his jaw clenched too tight. It’s reflected in his eyes, where his smile doesn’t quite reach, and the way he holds his hands balled into fists at his side.

Blaine looks over at the puppet’s head covered by his shirt one more time.

“Sebastian.” He says the name out loud, letting it fill his mouth, feeling it roll off his tongue. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Blaine calls out, feeling immediately stupid for doing so.

Blaine flips through the remaining pages. There are a couple more pictures of the woman, this time with a child standing beside her instead of on her lap, but the other photos are mostly the same - Kurt and Sebastian photographed together at different ages, or the two young men photographed with the older man. In each of those photographs, Blaine can’t help but notice how the older man always seemed to have his body turned towards Kurt, smiling at him as if he were the center of the universe, while Sebastian stood off to the side, somewhat out of the shot. Blaine takes his finger and gently traces a line between Sebastian and the older man. Yes, if Blaine takes a pair of scissors, he can cut Sebastian out of the photograph, and not a speck of him would remain.

Blaine doesn’t want to sympathize with Sebastian, but he can’t help it. His heart hurts for the young man.

Blaine yawns, covering his mouth with his hand and squeezing his eyes shut. He turns on his side to look up at the puppet  _Kurt_.

 _“You two could have been friends,”_  Cooper’s voice echoes in Blaine’s head.

“We could have been friends,” Blaine repeats, staring at Kurt’s face, yawning again. “That would have been nice.”

His mind walks through the bedroom that must have been Kurt’s, with the sewing machine and the dress form, and those opera posters hanging on the walls. If Kurt were alive today, they could go to musicals together, watch old movies, or talk about fashion. Blaine has a lot of good friends back home in Ohio, but he’s always felt like there was something missing, something that didn’t mesh. Something about _himself_ that he didn’t quite have in common with everyone else, even if, in general, they liked the same things. He always thought that that one thing was the fact that he was the only out gay guy at school, but he’s not convinced.

Maybe Kurt could have been that missing puzzle piece.

Blaine reaches out a finger and gently traces the line of Kurt’s mouth.  _How close to the real Kurt’s mouth is this one?_  he wonders.  _How close did the puppet master who made him get the blue of his eyes? Or the peach of his skin?_  Blaine gazes into Kurt’s face, planning on letting this jumble of thoughts, daydreams, and questions carry him through the final hours until he has to leave in the morning.

***

_Blaine watches Kurt’s legs swing lightly against the square granite headstone he’s perched on._

_“Do you really think it could work out for them?” Kurt asks hopefully, his eyes turning back toward the screen. “Do you think they can fall in love and live happily ever after?”_

_“I don’t see why not,” Blaine answers, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “Stranger things have happened.” Kurt turns to Blaine; Blaine gives him a wink, and a teasing smile._

_Kurt looks at the bag of popcorn in Blaine’s hand. He licks his lips with the memory of it, but he doesn’t take a piece._

_“Have you” - Kurt bites his lip as best he can, the move looking natural even though, for him, it’s not - “have you ever been in love?”_

_Blaine stops chewing his popcorn and swallows hard._

_“Once,” Blaine admits, looking down at his shoes in the grass, his cheeks coloring, though Kurt can’t see the change in the dark._

_“Ah,” Kurt says, nodding and turning away. “What happened? How did it end?”_

_Blaine chuckles a bit, his focus shifting from his shoes back up to the screen._

_“It hasn’t ended yet,” Blaine says, placing another piece of popcorn in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He watches the two lovers on the screen embrace, and then dares a glance in Kurt’s direction._

_Kurt is staring at him, his mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. Blaine laughs at the startled look on his face. Blaine places a kiss on his own index finger, then presses that finger to Kurt’s lips. He curls his fingers beneath Kurt’s chin and closes his mouth._

_“You shouldn’t sit with your mouth open like that,” Blaine says. “You’ll catch flies.”_

***

Blaine wakes up to the sun warming his cheek and a faraway buzzing, like the incessant drone of a gnat, niggling in his ears. He blinks his sluggish eyelids open and looks confusedly around, having forgotten for a second that he was lying on the floor in the living room and not in his bed. He sees the bright sunlight streaming in through the curtains. He sees the dining room table laden with tools. He sees the green-eyed puppet –  _Sebastian_  – staring at him.

Blaine’s eyes pop open and he sits up straight.

Sebastian’s painted green eyes are staring down at him, the grey shirt that had been covering his head pooled on the floor.

Blaine does his best to recall earlier when he had gotten spooked, and all of the reasons he thought up to explain away these puppets’ odd “behaviors”.

“Southern California…earthquakes…tremors…nothing else going on at all,” Blaine mumbles, staring straight into the puppet’s eyes as if challenging him to prove Blaine wrong.

Blaine stares at the _Sebastian_ puppet for a solid, uncomfortable minute, but it doesn’t move.

Still uneasy, Blaine stands and backs away towards his room, eager to turn off his obnoxious alarm and get a few more _Zzzz’s_. He slams his hand down on the alarm button, then checks the time.

_9:15 A.M._

He brings a hand up to his face and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“9:15…” he says out loud, wondering why that time in particular bothers him. He raises his arms over his head and stretches, hearing the vertebrae in his back crack one at a time. “9:15…” he says again, twisting back and forth. “9:15…” He stops stretching and smacks his forehead with his hand. “9:15!” he yells when he remembers. “I was supposed to meet Gary at the house at 9!”

Blaine shoves all thoughts of Sebastian’s puppet head aside and tosses on the first outfit within reach – a pair of dark wash jeans, a red bowtie, and a slate blue button down shirt with teddy bear heads on it.

He didn’t originally intend on wearing that shirt, but it seems appropriate.

He slips on his shoes and grabs his webcam, his Bluetooth, and his cell phone, a sinking feeling growing in his gut when he sees the message alert. Blaine decides to tear off the Band-Aid quickly and check them. There are already seven text messages from Gary and a missed call from Cooper (probably wondering when Blaine is going to get his ass rolling). There’s no live feed planned for today. Blaine is just recording the general goings on, which gives him some freedom to work without playing to an audience.

It also means that he won’t louse anything up too much if he’s, oh, an hour late.

He slips his Bluetooth into his ear and dials Cooper back while he grabs his various keys.

“Blainers,” Cooper’s voice greets him after half a ring.

_That’s not good._

“Hey, Coop,” Blaine says, fighting to get the words out around a yawn.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Cooper scolds. “You sound _exhausted_. Long night tinkering with your puppets, Dr. Strangelove?”

“Not at all. I was busy working on the plans for your house,” Blaine lies.

“Right,” Cooper responds with a touch of skepticism. “Well, it’s a good thing I trust you and your artistic vision.”

“Yeah, good thing,” Blaine says wryly. He makes his way back to the living room while he talks to his brother, but he’s distracted by Kurt, by Sebastian, by beginning his day late, and he just wants to end this call as painlessly as possible. “Look, I’m heading out to the house now to meet Gary. I’ll call you when I get there.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Cooper says. There’s a pause, a tense silence filling the space where Cooper would otherwise disconnect the call, like he wants to say something. Blaine is about to ask if there’s anything else on his mind, but then the line goes dead.

Blaine shrugs it off. Cooper isn’t shy about his feelings. If he has something to say, he’ll say it eventually. Blaine heads to the front door, but he finds himself stalling - backtracking to his bedroom, to the bathroom, to the dining room table, double checking for things he knows he has. He shouldn’t feel guilty, but he does - not because he thinks Cooper knows that he didn’t do any of the things he was supposed to last night when he got back to the beach house.

He doesn’t want to leave Kurt alone again.

Sebastian, too, he guesses. Blaine might have strange, irrational ideas about Sebastian not liking him, but he’s broken, too. He was locked down in that basement room in the dark along with Kurt for all those years.

Nobody deserves that.

Blaine paces back and forth while he thinks, trying to find a solution so he feels comfortable leaving. He finally turns on the TV, switching the channel to  _AMC_.

It’s not the same as human company, but at least it won’t be quiet.

He takes one last look at the puppets and walks out the door.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says as an afterthought, and then leaves, locking up the house and heading to his minivan.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting there is amazing art for this story at http://lady--divine.tumblr.com/post/96837318686/fmhartz91-all-the-beautiful-pieces-artist

Blaine pulls up to the house at a quarter after ten. It looks exactly the way he left it, horrendous paintjob and all, but with the addition of a U-Haul truck parked by the curb, and a grown man wearing a navy blue polo and retro 1980s acid wash jeans staring in at the window with his hands pressed to the glass. From the back, he looks like an oversized Cabbage Patch kid, but in the reflection of the window, he more closely resembles a young Karl Marx  _with_  the iconic frizzy beard.

“Blaine,” the man plaintively moans. “Blaine, where are you? Open the door…”

Blaine shakes his head when he sees him, chuckling at his woeful wail. Blaine parks in front of the house, but the man doesn’t notice, focused as intently as he is on the living room full of toys, visible through the curtains that Blaine neglected to pull closed the night before.

“Gary!” Blaine calls out as he steps out of his minivan. “Have some self-respect, man.”

“Blaine!” Gary exclaims. He spins around, face glowing with childlike excitement, but his voice tinged with exasperation at being kept waiting. “You can’t leave me out here with all those toys inside, begging for me to take them away from this _awful_ house.” Gary presses his ear against the glass. “I can hear them, Blaine,” he says as Blaine approaches the door. “They’re saying  _Gary…come rescue us, Gary. We need you…”_

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, sorting through his key ring for the correct key. “I got held up.”

“Yeah” - Gary flashes a knowing grin and a wink - “your brother told me  _all_  about it. Getting into the puppet biz, huh, Blaine?”

Blaine makes a disgusted face and turns away from Gary to unlock the door. “Jesus Christmas! You, too?” Blaine pushes the door in as far as he can. He grabs a broken ottoman to prop it open.

Gary walks in behind Blaine, but stops inside the doorway, his eyes wide with awe, his jaw dropped, a hand raised to cover his heart.

“I can’t…I can’t believe it,” he says dramatically, staring at the heaps of toys and the stacks of boxes. “It’s…it’s _amazing_.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, pulling his webcam out of his pocket and switching it on, “and this isn’t even _half_ of it.”

Gary whimpers. Blaine trains the camera on his face.

“It’s like a dream come true,” Gary whispers, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye.

“Snap out of it, Gary.” Blaine snaps his fingers in the air above the webcam. “You have to do your spiel.”

Gary startles out of his trance at the unpleasant noise.

“Right, right…” He tugs down on the hem of his polo to straighten out the wrinkles (not that it does any good, or that they matter compared to the mustard stain on his collar) and looks into the camera. “When should I…”

“Now,” Blaine says, launching straight into the segment. “Hello, guys, gals, and Internet pals ( _Cooper’s tagline; Blaine had nothing to do with it_ ). This is Blaine Anderson, coming to you from day 2 of our renovation. I’m here with our good friend Gary Shepton…” Gary gives the camera a timid wave, his eyes bouncing between Blaine and the webcam, unsure where to look even though they’ve done this several times before already “…and he’s going to be appraising the toys in the house. Gary, please tell our viewers what exactly it is you’re going to be doing while you’re here.”

“I’m going to start off by photographing and cataloging,” Gary explains. He pulls an iPad mini tablet out of his back pocket and holds it up. He accesses an empty Excel document and shows it to the camera. “When I’m done, I’ll load up the toys that I can sell immediately into my U-Haul and take them to my shop. In the interim, I’m going to send Cooper a detailed inventory of all the toys, their conditions, and their estimated values.”

“How will you get that information?” Blaine asks, again taping filler for Cooper to use in case he runs a few minutes short of his time slot.

“I use Google Goggles and other appraisal specific Internet surfing software to help me research the items I’m looking at fairly quickly. One photograph and I can bring up the information I need.” Gary switches to a program on his tablet and turns on a demo that illustrates the technique. “It makes researching a lot easier and more accurate. It can also put me in contact with other appraisers who have encountered the same items, who might have some insight that could be useful. Cuts down on the possibility of accidentally dealing in counterfeit merchandise.” Gary smirks. “I wish I had this five years ago, I’ll tell you what. Would have saved me a ton of money on my AT&T bill, tracking that information down one phone call at a time.”

“We have rooms and rooms full of toys in this house. How long do you think that’s going to take?” Blaine asks, his question a veiled way of finding out how long they’re going to be there.

“Most of the day, if I’m lucky,” Gary says with a dreamy sigh.

 _Great_ , Blaine thinks, hoping that Kurt and Sebastian don’t get too bored watching old movies all day long.

Yup, bored puppets. Because that’s a definite possibility.

“Okay,” Blaine says, switching off the webcam while trying not to sound too disappointed. “I have some things to do in the house and some phone calls to make. If you need me, just holler.”

“Will do,” Gary says, his attention already drawn to a stack of vintage Barbie dolls in the far corner.

Blaine watches him go, shaking his head at the odd man.

“Have fun,” he says, watching Gary put on a pair of white cotton gloves and get to work.

***

Unlike dealing with Cooper’s other project houses, which were a simple matter of calling in a clean-up crew to get rid of the garbage and occasionally coming across a gem or two that they could sell, this house is a complicated mishmash of treasures and antiques, coupled with the fairly typical, grotesque trash. Blaine needs to pull out his whole metaphorical Rolodex of contacts for this project. He needs to find someone to unload the heavy tools in the basement, someone else to appraise the sports memorabilia upstairs, and he needs to order a temporary storage unit for the furniture. Authentic Victorian furnishings are highly coveted, which makes them hard to locate, and ultimately expensive when you find someone willing to part with them. He intends on keeping anything he can salvage and repurposing it for the renovation.

The upstairs bedrooms are going to be the easiest rooms to renovate by far. It’s a given that Cooper is going to want to sell the baseball pennants and the bat, and probably the opera posters, too. There’s a huge market for those vintage posters, especially ones in mint condition with bright colors like these posters have. But the furniture will stay.

A pit blossoms in Blaine’s stomach at the thought of dismantling Kurt’s bedroom.

Blaine had originally thought that the workshop in the basement where the puppets were made was the heart of the house. After he saw the bedrooms, he realized he was wrong. The upstairs rooms, so well-tended, adorned with carefully chosen mementos – _those_ rooms are the heart of the house.

Blaine feels sick at the idea of tearing that heart apart.

But he has Kurt, he reminds himself. He saved Kurt…and Sebastian…and that’s all that matters.

 _Yes, all that matters is my burgeoning insanity and a future on tabloid talk shows_ , he acknowledges ruefully.

Blaine heads down the hallway to the dining room, smiling to himself when he hears Gary chirp in triumph at some amazing doll-related discovery.

“They had the whole Bob Mackie for Barbie collection? Sweet!”

Blaine heads up the stairs to the next level, but bypasses the bedrooms, opting to start in the attic. They spent practically no time up there yesterday during the walkthrough. Blaine wants to get a better look at the neat stacks of boxes and the furnishings that were kept up there. He knows he’ll have to deal with those latent memories in the bedrooms eventually, plus the possibility of another fantasy involving Kurt, so for now, he’ll start with the easy-to-handle stuff.

Blaine switches the webcam to still-camera mode as he heads up the last flight of stairs. There doesn’t appear to be a light switch up here, but sunlight floods in through a large circular vent in the outer wall, making the whole room warm and bright.

Blaine puts on a pair of his own protective gloves and examines the furniture items stored up there closely – a stand-up lamp with what looks like a Tiffany shade; another table lamp with a pleated, cream-fabric shade, sitting on a squat, cherry wood end table that had most likely been in the living room at some point; four chairs that belonged to the dining room table downstairs; and a matching pair of Queen Victoria wing chairs, upholstered in a cream fabric imprinted with gold ivy leaves.

Blaine photographs each piece, mentally fixing where he wants to put them in the house. He wonders if Kurt would have liked one of those wing chairs in his room, or maybe the stand-up lamp next to his sewing machine while he worked. What kinds of clothes did he sew? Did he make outfits for himself, or did he maybe make clothes and sell them?

Or perhaps he worked in the theater, designing costumes. Those posters in his room could be from performances he worked on.

Blaine smiles, imagining Kurt as a student at McKinley, working on the costumes for the musical Blaine starred in his junior year –  _West Side Story_. They could have chatted while Kurt took his measurements, discussed what outfits Kurt could see Tony wearing during certain scenes and why. What insights might he have had on Tony and Maria’s motivations, and how would he have portrayed that through their costumes? Blaine always felt that the people in charge of wardrobes on certain television shows understand the characters better than the writers do sometimes. What would Kurt have to say about that?

Blaine moves the standing lamp into better lighting while he daydreams of afternoons spent with Kurt after school, talking over fittings between rehearsals. Blaine could picture himself asking Kurt to help him run through his lines while he built up the nerve to ask Kurt out on a date…provided, of course, that Kurt _liked_ guys that way. Blaine can’t shake the feeling he did. Blaine sighs. Didn’t he get on Cooper’s case for making assumptions about the sexual identity of the person who inhabited Kurt’s room? Blaine doesn’t want to be a hypocrite, but for some reason he can’t help doing the same thing. Everything he sees, everything he touches is a clue to who these people were, the same as in every house, but with Kurt…there’s an impression Blaine gets that has nothing to do with the posters or the sewing machine. It’s like he _feels_ Kurt in this house. A part of him is there, telling Blaine about him; things that Blaine wouldn’t otherwise infer from the stuff lying around. But it’s not as simple as that, either. This impression of Kurt, it’s not passively hiding in individual objects, waiting to be uncovered. Blaine feels like it’s following him, guiding him, the same way he did when he first went down to the basement.

Whatever secret this house holds that has to do with Kurt, it _wants_ to be revealed.

Blaine repositions the lamp shade so that the sunlight streams through the dark glass and takes a picture. He’s all set to take another picture when, out of the corner of his eye, he spots peculiar markings along one side of the boxes. Blaine pockets his webcam and walks over to take a look. He runs a gloved finger over one line of writing. It’s difficult to read because whatever marker had been used to write this has bled into the cardboard, but a skeleton of the words remains.

Blaine has seen this before. He wishes he had brought one of the photographs from the album at the beach house with him to compare against. He had thought about carrying Kurt’s picture in his pocket, but he didn’t want to ruin it. These nearly unreadable words, hastily scribbled by a hand that probably didn’t spend too much time writing, look identical to the writing on the backs of the photographs.

Blaine tears into the first box. The interlocking flaps, softened by age and dampness, pop up with little effort. The very top of the box is layered in newspaper, faded where the inch-wide seam between the loose flaps exposed it to sunlight but otherwise intact. Blaine digs through the pages, catching sight of conflicting dates. The newspaper on top is the most recent, albeit from about thirty years ago, but a few layers down the dates get older. Beneath them, Blaine finds a wealth of leather bound books. Blaine lifts the ones on top to peek underneath.

Yup, more books.

Blaine frowns.

A lot of people collect vintage books. That’s not unusual. It just seems too normal for _this_ house. Blaine isn’t sure what he expected to find in this box, but it wasn’t boring books. Blaine picks one up anyway to examine it.

At least Cooper will be thrilled. He has a guy in L.A. who buys rare books, and considering all the other collectibles in the house, these books are probably first editions.

Blaine opens the cover and turns to a random page.

_January 18 th_ _–_

_I’ll never get used to the weather in Seattle. Always so wet, always so dreary. I much prefer the California coast with its sunshine and warmth. And the ocean. God, I love the ocean. If only we could find a place to settle down there where we all can be happy. I miss you guys. Every day I miss you guys. I’ll never forgive myself for missing the most important day of our lives…and I did it again. But I’m trying to make a new life for us, doll, and when I break into the big time, it’s going to be the best of the best for the Smythe family._

Blaine stops reading. He looks at the black leather cover, the spine bare except for a gold embossed number –  _1915_.

These aren’t just books, Blaine realizes. They’re journals.

Blaine reaches into the box and looks at the books again, each one similar, each with a different year embossed along the spine –  _1916, 1917, 1918, 1919…_

It doesn’t seem like there’s an end to them. Blaine returns the book, pulls the box down from the stack, and goes for the next box. The flaps spring open as if they have been waiting years for someone to come along and find them, and a strong smell escapes.

A burnt smell, like coals left over after a barbecue.

No newspapers cover these. Blaine picks up the first journal on top. The date on the spine is worn flat and almost too difficult to read. He traces his finger over it, revealing an imprint of the number  _1932_. Blaine examines his glove covered digit. The cotton is stained black by a layer of fine ash. He raises the book to his nose and takes a tentative sniff.

It smells like a fireplace.

Blaine looks the journal over thoroughly. The gold rind on the pages is singed, and parts of the leather cover are burnt. Blaine opens the book to a page in the middle.

_November 24 –_

_It’s Thanksgiving Day, but there’s nothing to be thankful for. Everything is gone. All of it, my entire life, gone. I would bring you all back if I could. I would trade everything that I said and did to make it all right again._

The paragraph cuts off there with a long, violent swipe of black ink cutting across the page, leaving an impression so deep that the tip of the pen sliced through the paper. Blaine turns the page to look for another entry but there’s nothing. No entry for November 25, none for November 26, no other entries for the rest of the month. Blaine keeps flipping the pages, but the book is blank until Christmas Day.

_December 25 –_

_Merry Christmas to all those I love who are no longer here with me. I feel your presence every day, haunting me, but it’s not the same._

That’s the last entry for the remainder of the year.

Blaine stares at the blank page labeled December 31st.

It seems so empty, so final.

Blaine wishes there was something written there – anything. Something that tells him that despite it all, despite this obvious pain, life continued on and good things happened.

Blaine turns back to the beginning of the journal, to the earlier entries for the year.

_February 14 –_

_It’s Valentine’s Day, and I miss you so much that I don’t think that I could even begin to tell you. I made your favorite dinner, bought a bottle of that God awful wine you loved so much, and ate alone. Well, not alone. Kurt was here with me. I love that boy and I appreciate his company, but it wasn’t the same as having you here. Meanwhile, Sebastian went out drinking…again. He takes a little too much after me, I’m afraid. He’s going to get some floozy knocked up, and then what? He’ll get chained down with a brood of simpering brats and no future. That’s not what you wanted for him, and it’s not what I want for him, but he doesn’t listen to me._

_The sad thing is that I’m past the point where I think I care anymore._

Blaine feels his throat tighten as he reads on, blowing through a bunch of pages, letting the book lead him to where he should read next.

_March 6 –_

_Everyone is telling me to pack it in. They tell me that it’s over, but I refuse to believe it. So maybe the work isn’t out there the way it was, but we’ve suffered dry patches before. The audiences will come back. Once they realize these talkies are just a gimmick, they’ll return. They always do. They’ll be begging us to perform for them, and we’ll be able to name our price. The money will flow in ten deep, I’m sure…but if they don’t, what will I tell my boys? How do I tell them it’s over? That the world thinks we’re finished?_

“What?” Blaine asks the book, thumbing through the pages and hoping he’ll magically stumble on the answer. “ _What’s_ over?”

Blaine scans the pages, but he’s overwhelmed by the amount of entries and the nearly indecipherable script. He looks at the boxes stacked in front of him. There are six total. They can’t all be full of books, can they? Did whoever wrote in these journals write one for every year of his life?

There’s only one way to find out. Blaine would have to read through them all.

The boxes are going home with him.

Blaine repacks the box and hoists it into his arms.

It’s a treacherous trip down the narrow stairs with this box of books he’s carrying, but as with the puppets, there’s a compulsion within him to see this through. Whatever went on here, these books are a clue he’ll need to solve the mystery. He can’t leave them behind.

Blaine walks into the dining room and shuffles across the floor, down the hallway and into the living room, which has become emptier now that Gary has started loading the dolls into his U-Haul. Less clutter means more room for the house to breathe. The atmosphere in the downstairs level already seems lighter.

Blaine carries the box out to his minivan. He balances it between the door and his leg in order to fish his keys out of his pocket and open the back hatch. He puts the box in his trunk, shoving it over as far as he can to one side to make room for the others. He doesn’t shut the hatch completely before rushing back inside for another box.

“How’s it goin’, Gare?” Blaine asks as he blows past the man heading toward the front door, his arms laden with pink boxes. Blaine asks the question, but doesn’t stop to wait for an answer.

“I never want to leave,” Gary calls after him.

Blaine grumbles to himself, “Well, you’re gonna.”

One by one, Blaine carries the boxes of books down to his van, eager to go through each box and unlock whatever secret these journals may hold.

As he carries the last box through the living room, he remembers that he’s supposed to be filming Gary working, and to a lesser extent, himself.

“When I come back in, I need to film you, Gary,” Blaine yells to the man unloading the toys in the downstairs bathroom.

“Whatever floats your boat,” Gary replies. “By the way, I think your brother is going to be _really_ happy with the numbers I’m going to send him.”

“ _That_  good?” Blaine asks, stopping for a moment out of curiosity.

“Oh, yeah,” Gary says. “Most of this stuff is going to be no problem to move. I have a guy who’s looking for half the stuff I’ve found already, and he’s willing to pay higher than market price. I think he’s reselling them in Japan or something. He’ll probably get ten times as much over there.”

“Wow,” Blaine says, genuinely impressed.

“Yeah. If I were you, I’d ask for a raise.”

Blaine swallows.  _Too late for that_ , he thinks. God knows he could have used the money, too. But he’s not about to unload on Gary – not about this.

“I’ll do that,” Blaine says instead and heads out to his van.

All six boxes fit, shoved against each other tight without a single centimeter of space between them. The rear of his minivan sinks about a foot beneath the weight.

He closes the trunk, intent on heading back into the house right as a silver Lexus pulls up to the curb. Blaine doesn’t recognize the car and waits to see who it is. Maybe a neighbor stopping by to see what the activity is about. Blaine hasn’t met anyone from the neighborhood yet, which seems peculiar. Not one lookie loo. Not a single nosy neighbor.

The Lexus parks in front of Blaine’s Honda, nearly bumper to bumper. The driver’s door opens and a woman steps out, but she doesn’t acknowledge Blaine. She may not even realize that he’s standing there with the way she has her gaze honed in on the house in front of her. When she stands completely, she’s an inch or two taller than Blaine. She’s dressed to intimidate in a tailored, aubergine suit. A billowy, white shirt underneath the jacket lends an air of femininity to her starched ensemble. She has sleek, auburn hair styled in a bob that falls an inch above her earlobes. Her tan looks artificial – too perfect, too even, and a touch too orange, but everything about her appearance has been meticulously thought out. She seems put together with exceptionally clean angles, from the razor cut of her hair, to the severe downturn of her mouth and her sharp, pointed chin.

“So, it finally sold,” she says, shaking her head with blatant disapproval. “I almost didn’t believe it when I heard.”

“Uh, may I help you?” Blaine asks. He walks toward her, reaching for his webcam, but the scowl on the woman’s face causes him to reconsider whether or not he should record this conversation for his brother’s show. She turns only her head and looks Blaine over from head to foot with an unamused half-smile/half-frown playing on her lips.

“I don’t know,” she says curtly. “ _Can_ you?”

Blaine jerks back at her impolite and, frankly, adolescent response. “I probably can if you tell me…”

“My name is Catherine Dorst,” she interrupts. “I’m a liaison for the San Diego Historical Society, and I’m curious to know what the new owners have planned for this house.”

“I’m Blaine Anderson.” Blaine offers the woman a cordial smile and his hand. She looks him over again and scoffs, turning back to the house.

“Okay,” Blaine starts, pulling his hand away, “well, we plan to bring the house back to its original design,” he says confidently. “We’re going to keep all the original structural details and…”

“ _We_?” she interrupts again with a smirk, examining Blaine shrewdly. “You and who else? I mean, how old are you? Twelve?”

“Uh, no,” he says, ducking his head and adopting what tries to be a polite smile. He doesn’t take too much offense since looking younger than his age is a boon in his chosen profession. “Cooper Anderson bought the house for his home renovation show. I’m his brother. I’m in charge of the renovation.”

Her eyes pop open, still glaring at him, but with an excited expression on her face.

“Cooper Anderson?” she asks. “ _The_  Cooper Anderson?”

Blaine sighs. _Oh boy. A fan._

“The one and only,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“I’ve seen him on TV,” she says, straightening her suit and fussing with her hair. “Is he here?” She starts up the walk as Gary walks out with another armload of dolls, humming to himself and laughing at odd intervals. She glances at him with a grimace but keeps on walking.

“No,” Blaine replies, tailing after her, “he’s not here. He’s in L.A.”

She stops short and stares at the open door, deciding whether or not it’s worth going inside and checking for herself. When she spots Gary walking back to the house, brushing grey dust off the legs of his jeans, she comes to the conclusion that risking similar damage to her $1200 suit isn’t worth it.

“Shame,” she says, turning back around and heading for her car. She crooks a finger over her shoulder, summoning Blaine to follow. “The Historical Society has been trying to buy this house for a while now, but I guess it just wasn’t in the stars.” She opens her passenger side door and pulls out a leather briefcase. Resting it on the roof of her Lexus, she dials the combination to the lock. When the lid snaps open, she pulls out a manila file full of paperwork. “Since this is a historical point of interest, we have some recommendations for the renovation, a list of materials we ask that you use, a request form to put the address of the house on our tour list…”

“ _What_  list?” Blaine asks, taking the papers that she thrusts in his direction.

“Our website lists the addresses of authentic Victorian houses in the county for people to drive by and look at. You’re not required to add the Smythe House to the list, of course, but that doesn’t mean people won’t find you and drop by anyway. At least if you are listed on our website, people will have to abide by the rules we lay down to protect your privacy.”

Blaine’s eyes flick up from the papers in front of him. “Smythe House?”

“Andrew Smythe,” Catherine says. “He bought this house back in the mid-30s.”

 _Smythe_. The same name that’s on the Little League jersey in the bedroom upstairs.

“Who was Andrew Smythe?” Blaine asks, giving Catherine his undivided attention.

She rolls her eyes. “Did you even Google this house before you started tearing into it?” she asks bitterly.

“I only first saw it yesterday,” Blaine says, trying not to sound too defensive. “And I haven’t  _torn into it_. We’re in the process of clearing it out. I intend on taking my time to get this renovation right. I was actually planning on dropping by your offices myself later on this week for some advice.”

Catherine stands up an inch straighter, visibly impressed. “Well then…Andrew Smythe was one of the last great Vaudevillians of his time,” she explains with a smidgen more respect, but for him or for Andrew, Blaine doesn’t venture a guess, “as well as one of Vaudeville’s staunchest supporters.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Catherine shuts her briefcase and puts it back in her car, closing the door to lean against it while she speaks. “He was one of those precious few who were holding on with both hands, waiting for Vaudeville to make a revival.” She crosses her arms, and her eyes go slightly unfocused, recalling a memory. “Vaudeville took a lot from Andrew, like it did from other performers.”

Blaine has a feeling he knows what she’s referring to, but he asks anyway. “What did it take?”

Catherine gazes over Blaine’s head at the house with a sorrowful look in her eyes before she answers. “His wife,” she says heavily, “and his sons.”

“He had sons?” It’s both a question and a declaration. Blaine is stitching up the clues he already knows, adding Catherine’s confirmation to the seams.

“Yes. Two. Though there was speculation that one of them _wasn’t_ his son.”

Blaine narrows his eyelids at the woman staring past him at the house. “Were their names…Kurt and Sebastian?”

Those names seem to snap her out of her haze, her eyes shooting down to meet his. “Yes, they were.” She smiles. “It looks like you may have done some homework after all.”

Blaine is about to mention the puppets in the basement and the journals from the attic, but he holds his tongue. He doesn’t want Catherine asking to see them…or possibly to take them. This house was declared a historical landmark before Cooper bought it. According to the auction company he purchased the property from, everything inside the house belongs to him, but if it has historical significance, can Catherine claim it? Blaine is iffy on the legalities of their situation, so he says nothing. He’s not willing to part with his puppets – to part with _Kurt_ \- or these new clues that he’s found.

“Look,” Catherine says, her turn to break Blaine from his thoughts, “I apologize if I’m being a little touchy about this, but we were supposed to be the first ones contacted when the owner died. We were poised to buy this house, but the bank moved straight to auction and we were never informed…”

Catherine’s comment strikes a chord – something Blaine read in the paperwork his brother sent him that doesn’t match up to Catherine’s story about Andrew Smythe owning the house.

“Okay, but what I don’t understand is” - Blaine interrupts this time, feeling an ease to do so - “my brother bought the house at auction, but the owner prior to the bank is listed as…Terry? Tricia?”

Catherine shakes her head as a breeze picks its way through her auburn bob, blowing a few strands in her face. “Teresa,” she corrects, brushing the hair from her eyes. “Teresa Calhoun. She was named on the deed to the house as his niece.”

“So, Andrew had a sister?” Blaine asks hopefully, interested in finding a living relative who might know the story of Andrew and his sons.

“No, Andrew Smythe had no other family according to public record. I don’t think she was a blood relative. Vaudeville performers were a tight knit group. I think Teresa was dumped off on Andrew because there was no one else to care for the girl, and he couldn’t say no. But by that point, he didn’t quite have all his ducks in a row, if you catch my drift, and with good reason.” Catherine sighs. It’s a fretful sound. “I don’t think he sent her to school. I don’t think she even left the house.”

Catherine pauses, watching Gary emerge through the front door while Blaine stands by quietly, waiting for her to continue.

“Before Andrew died, he tried to make arrangements for Teresa, but she had no other relatives, and she couldn’t live on her own. Without a guardian, she would have been committed. So he contacted us, and we worked together to have the house declared a historical landmark.”

“I heard Victorian houses were a hot commodity out here,” Blaine interjects.

“They are, but being a historical landmark, she would be safe to live out the rest of her life here. There were some requirements with regard to the house’s upkeep that Andrew still had to fulfill. We had discussed plans for turning the house into a Vaudeville museum eventually, but Andrew died before we could finalize the paperwork. After that, Teresa wouldn’t answer the door when we came by, and she never picked up the phone.” A veil of longing clouds Catherine’s eyes. “You know, Andrew bought this place pretty much right after his sons died. I think it was a way for him to try and start over. Maybe he was considering starting another family. I don’t know. But I hope whoever buys this house knows what it’s worth.”

“I’ll make sure my brother finds someone worthy of it,” Blaine says. The moment the words come out of his mouth, he commits them as a vow. Usually Blaine doesn’t concern himself with who buys the renovated houses off of his brother once he’s done with them, but he can’t let just anyone buy this house…not now.

“See that you do,” Catherine says with a wink, extending a hand his way. “It was nice meeting you, Blaine.”

Blaine takes her hand and shakes it. “It was nice meeting you, too.”

She smiles at him, takes one last look at the house, and then climbs back into her Lexus. She starts the engine, but doesn’t pull away from the curb. She rolls down her passenger side window and leans across the seats.

“Oh, Blaine? One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“We still have an exhibit down at our main offices on the history of Vaudeville in San Diego, but we are desperately short on any actual artifacts. If you come across something in there that you think you can part with, would you give me a call?” Catherine reaches into her glove box, pulls out a business card, and hands it through the window to Blaine.

“Sure.” A spark of possessiveness lights in Blaine’s chest, almost as if she had asked for his puppets outright. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Anything really,” she says with a non-committal twist of her lips. “Posters, costumes…if you guys find Sammy, and your brother is willing to part with him, I’d be extra special grateful.” Her words sound oddly suggestive, but Blaine lets it go.

“Sammy?” Blaine scrunches his nose.

“Andrew’s puppet,” Catherine clarifies. “His _main_ puppet, I should say. After Andrew left Vaudeville, no one saw Sammy again. I would love to see him resurface.”

“So, Andrew Smythe was a ventriloquist.” Blaine reads the words on the business card before sticking it in his back pocket. “Were Kurt and Sebastian ventriloquists, too?”

“Sebastian was” - Catherine sits up in her seat, preparing to drive - “or his dad was training him to be. People say he wasn’t all that good at it.”

“And Kurt?”

“He sang. He was a countertenor - a rare talent. He would have been a headliner, too, only…” Catherine glances down at her steering wheel. “Well, I think you can guess.”

“Yeah. I can guess.”

Catherine raises a hand and waves at Blaine. Then she turns her Lexus around in the cul-de-sac and drives away.

Blaine stares at the papers in his hands. Every day at this house is going to be a new adventure in pain and heart break; he can feel it. Now along with Andrew and his sons, he can add the mysterious Teresa to the mix. But even with this new information, he has more questions and less answers than he did before. He stows the paperwork Catherine gave him in the van and returns to work, eager to wrap things up for the day and go already.

“Hey! I uncovered the fireplace,” Gary says, gesturing to a space in the far corner of the living room when Blaine re-enters the house.

“Fireplace? Oh, yeah…” Blaine had seen the chimney from the outside, but for some reason the idea of the house having a fireplace hadn’t occurred to him. A working fireplace will definitely tack higher digits to Cooper’s asking price. But that hollow recess in the living room wall made of soot baked bricks, the corpses of dead birds piled where logs normally would be, immediately brings to mind the burnt journal currently sitting in his trunk, waiting to be read. And he’s _dying_ to read it. He groans, knowing he can’t leave until Gary is done with his work.

There’s got to be a way to get him to move faster.

Blaine spends the rest of the afternoon slogging through the busywork that he didn’t get done the day before. He makes his phone calls, schedules more appraisers to come down to the house, and orders a storage unit for the furniture. Then he putters around with Gary, taping him for Cooper’s show. He gets the brilliant idea to help him move the dolls to the U-Haul so he doesn’t just sit around and count the hours before he can return to the beach house and Kurt.

It’s a little before seven in the evening before Gary has to call it quits for the day, his eyes crossing every time he tries to read the print on another pink box. He begs Blaine for the opportunity to come back tomorrow and finish with the lot.

Blaine needs Gary to sell the toys. Did Gary really think Blaine would say no?

Blaine waves to Gary, watching the box truck pull away with its haul. Blaine is glad that those toys will find new homes, but seeing them go feels like carving away at the spirit of the house. But without them littering the floor, Blaine gets a better idea of what the house looked like when it was new. It wasn’t a glorified storage unit or a junk pile. It was a _home_ , and this one might have been more full of hope than any Blaine has ever seen. It was supposed to be a way to start over.

Blaine wonders how far Andrew Smythe really got with that goal.

He peeks over at his trunk, filled with boxes of journals that might answer that question, ready to travel to the beach house.

That’s a _lot_ of reading he’s got ahead of him.

Blaine starts locking up, making sure that the curtains are drawn this time around before he leaves to deter any other curious eyes, but just as he’s about to throw the deadbolt, he has a thought. He unlocks the door and heads back in, jogging upstairs to the bedrooms. He goes into Kurt’s room and retrieves the suit from the bed.

This suit was made for Kurt, and Blaine is eager to see him in it.

It still astounds Blaine how this suit seems so brand new, like it could have been made yesterday.

Blaine brings the fabric to his nose and sniffs it.

It even _smells_ new; not like it’s ever sat in mothballs, even once. Blaine’s mother had inherited dresses of her grandmother’s that had been stored improperly in mothballs after she passed away. His parents had those dresses professionally repaired, but no amount of dry cleaning could get that odor out. It adheres to the fibers, embeds itself there.

But this suit simply smells like fabric.

Blaine examines it. He admires the weave and the stitching. Then he turns his attention to the rest of the room – the bed, the sewing machine, the dress form, the posters… Everything in here was tailored for Kurt, the way the other room was decorated specifically for Sebastian.

Everything looking brand spanking new…new and _unused_.

Blaine thinks over his conversation with Catherine, and as her words repeat in his head, he pulls the suit close to him, hugging it tight to his chest.

If Andrew Smythe bought this house to start over  _after_  his sons died, that means Kurt and Sebastian were never in these rooms.

Sebastian likely never wore that jersey, never saw that signed baseball bat or those pennants hanging on the wall.

Kurt never used the dress form, nor the sewing machine, even though the bobbins are full and the needle threaded.

They never opened their wardrobes, never slept in their beds.

Blaine gulps down the pit that’s been bouncing around in his stomach all day.

Kurt and Sebastian never set foot in this house.

This isn’t a bedroom he’s standing in.

It’s a shrine.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Tears stream hot and unchecked down Blaine’s cheeks by the time he reaches the beach house, but for the life of him, he can’t remember when he started crying. He doesn’t think he was crying when he left Kurt’s room - no,  _memorial_ \- with the suit clutched to his chest. He might have gotten misty-eyed when he closed the door and walked numbly down the hallway. A tear could have welled up and broken free as he hurried down the stairs. But between crossing the living room, locking up the house, and walking to his van, everything else he did is a blur.

He drove on autopilot all the way to the coast, the majority of his thoughts focused on the new reality he had been saddled with.

Before it registers, he pulls into his driveway and parks. He kills the engine and crosses his arms over the steering wheel. He looks at the reflection of his face in the rear view mirror - cheeks splotchy, eyes rimmed red, curls on his head pulling free of the gel he uses to keep them out of his face from the many times he ran his hand through his hair. He’s alive. He looks like complete and utter hell, but he’s here – eighteen-years-old, working hard, with his entire future ahead of him.

Then he thinks of Kurt.

Beautiful, talented Kurt.

Kurt, who Blaine could see himself falling for.

Kurt, who didn’t get to _have_ a future.

Blaine drops his head into his arms and bawls. The suit he brought home for Kurt sits beside him in the passenger seat. Blaine reaches a hand over and grabs the cuff of the sleeve, holding it like he would Kurt’s hand if Kurt were there to comfort him.

Kurt has become so real to Blaine in the past couple of days that Blaine feels like he  _is_  there, holding Blaine’s hand, whispering that everything will be okay, singing sweetly in that magical voice of his.

Blaine is trapped by the enigma of which is more devastating – the fact that Andrew lost his wife and both of his young sons, or that Kurt and Sebastian didn’t get the chance to live a full life. They died so young and had so much potential. The mournful look on Catherine’s face was evidence to Blaine of just how much potential Kurt had.

Blaine needs to know more of this story, and he has six boxes full of books that can potentially tell him, but he doesn’t have the time to look through them all.

He wants answers now.

He _needs_ answers before he loses his heart completely to a man he never knew.

Horrifically enough, that includes knowing how Kurt died.

The cause of Kurt’s death wasn’t an essential nugget of information before – not when Blaine had assumed that Kurt grew to be an old man and died peacefully in his sleep. But now, knowing that wasn’t the case, Blaine needs the truth.

But he can’t face the puppets yet – not in the state he’s in.

Blaine stays in the van until the air around him grows uncomfortably cold and there isn’t a tear left in his body. Then he climbs out of his vehicle, sluggish and depressed, ready for another day to be over.

Again, he considers calling Cooper, longing for a familiar voice to talk to even if that voice will be doing little more than making fun of him.

If Blaine has to be honest with himself, he really wants to talk to his mom.

Blaine leaves the boxes in the van but takes the suit with him when he goes inside the beach house.

From down the walkway, he can hear the television still going from when he left this morning. He catches a few lines of dialogue from the movie  _Some Like It Hot_ before it goes to commercial.

He opens the door and curses.

It’s nearly pitch black inside the living room, even with the light from outside streaming through the curtains.

Blaine swore before he left that he wouldn’t leave Kurt in the dark again.

“I am  _so_  sorry, guys,” he says as he walks into the house, the suit draped over the crook of his arm. He locks the door behind him and immediately switches on a light. “I didn’t think I was going to be out this late, but …”

He bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to mention selling the toys in case that might be offensive somehow.

Blaine lays the suit down on a chair by the dining room table, trying to think of a more pleasant direction to steer the conversation, when his foot hits something hard, sending it sliding a few inches across the floor. Blaine looks down and gasps, stumbling back a step.

Sebastian’s wooden torso is sprawled out on the floor, looking suspiciously like he was trying to crawl across the room to reach the sofa where Blaine left Kurt.

Blaine looks over at the sofa and finds Kurt lying in the exact position Blaine put him, but over by Blaine’s blanket, stopped by the photo album, lays Sebastian’s wooden head.

Whether his green eyes are aimed at Kurt or at the photo album (open to a page with a single picture of Andrew sitting with Kurt and Sebastian), Blaine can’t tell.

Blaine looks at the puppets, at the loose puppet head, at the picture in the album. He thinks about the journals in his van and his conversation with Catherine. There is something going on here that goes deeper than a house full of toys and two broken puppets, and Blaine feels strongly that if he puts these puppets back together, he might find out what it is.

It’s an absurd and inane notion, but it’s all he has.

Blaine doesn’t want to stall any longer. He wants to put Kurt and Sebastian back together, and now seems as good a time as any.

Blaine picks up Sebastian’s torso and repositions it on the loveseat. Halfway through the task, his stomach growls.

“Crap,” Blaine mutters. He forgot to pick something up on the way home, but he doesn’t want to stop now to cook something. He looks around at the puppets and the tools and everything waiting for him to get started, but if he doesn’t eat, he’s not going to last too long.

He hurries reluctantly to the kitchen to make a sandwich with the puppets on the forefront of his mind. He pulls out a hunk of roast beef and a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator, and grabs a loaf of rye bread off the counter. His mind wanders while he constructs his sandwich. He accidentally forgets the mayo the first time around and has to take the sandwich apart to layer some on, but he does remember to pour himself a glass of Coke. He’ll need the caffeine if he’s not going to get any sleep.

A loud clatter from the living room makes Blaine’s head snap up. He grabs his finished sandwich and his glass of cola and rushes into the room. There Sebastian is, lying on the floor again, and Blaine rolls his eyes.

“I know, I know,” Blaine says. “I’m getting to it.”

He takes three more steps into the room and hears a blood curdling growl.

“RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRAAAAWWWWRRRRLLLLL!”

Blaine stares in horror at the torso lying on the floor, his heart slamming to an agonizing stop in his chest. Blaine swallows hard, the sound of his blood pounding in his head blocking out everything else. Any minute now, the headless torso will rise up off the floor and attack him; Blaine knows it. The puppet jiggles, struggling to pull itself up even though it has no arms or legs. Blaine’s knees go weak and his mouth goes dry.

“Seb … Sebastian?” Blaine calls out to the possessed piece of wood dancing disjointedly on the floor. “Sebastian, is that you?”

Blaine dares a step forward, holding his drink so tight in his hand that the ice cubes knock against the side of the glass.

“Sebastian, I …”

“RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRAAAAWWWWRRRRLLLLL!”

The wood torso lurches up and Blaine stumbles backward, spilling cola down the front of his shirt, the ice cold liquid soaking through to his skin.

“Fuck!” he yells, his mind preparing – with growing trepidation - to confront the headless puppet.

The torso falls back on the floor with a loud  _CRACK_ and Blaine screams, but a flash of orange and the sound of footsteps pattering across the floor cut Blaine’s scream short.

A cat. An orange tabby cat with a purple collar crawls out from beneath Sebastian’s torso and turns on Blaine. Freed from beneath its wooden prison, the cat meows quietly. It sits in front of the door and meows again, looking from Blaine, to the door, and then back at Blaine.

Blaine stares at the creature with wide, incredulous eyes.

“What the …?”

The cat meows again, looking towards the door, and then back at Blaine.

Blaine considers the cat’s wordless request while trying to figure out how the hell the animal got into the house in the first place. They never had a pet at the beach house, so it has no pet doors or anything of the like, and Blaine hadn’t left any of the windows open that he knew of. It probably waltzed on in while Blaine was unloading the puppets and the tools from the van, and had been locked up in the house all day.

Blaine steps over Sebastian’s torso, puts his dinner on the dining room table - glass half-empty from when the soda spilled down his shirt – and opens the door. The cat gives Blaine a last, confused look, and trots primly out the door. Blaine watches it disappear down the walk and into the night.

“A cat,” Blaine says, closing the door. A cat would explain Sebastian’s torso lying on the floor. It’s an easier, more reasonable explanation than what Blaine had started to believe – that the puppets are haunted.

Blaine always tries to keep his mind open to the possibility that things happen in this world that there are no explanations for, but he’s also his father’s son, and George Anderson is a man for whom logic and reason outshine everything else. Often times, Blaine’s father’s voice is the voice of rationale in Blaine’s head, and it wars with the other, less acceptable ideas that Blaine sometimes believes.

This is definitely one of those times.

So, as Blaine drops into his bedroom for a change of clothes, it’s George Anderson’s voice he hears lecturing him to grow up and be reasonable. Blaine changes into his pajamas from earlier that morning, laying out his wet shirt on his bed and pre-treating the soda stain. Before he heads back to the dining room, he grabs his laptop. He might as well do some research while he works. Besides trying to find information on Kurt and Sebastian, he’s going to need a reference for the finer points of repairing porcelain, which is something he hasn’t really had to do. The puppets they worked on in arts and crafts class were made of felt and foam. The only time Blaine has ever tried to repair something made of porcelain was when he was in the third grade and he dropped his mother’s coffee mug. He tried and tried, but he couldn’t get the handle to stay on. The first time his mother tried to use it, the mug detached from the handle, spilling hot coffee in her lap.

Taking that into consideration, Blaine decides to start by repairing the Sebastian puppet. In his heart, he really wants to get the Kurt puppet put together, but he doesn’t want to screw him up. Blaine feels guilty that he is, in essence, using Sebastian as a guinea pig. Sebastian doesn’t appear to be as well constructed as Kurt. The finish on his face is spotty. The wiring holes aren’t as smooth as they could be, and some of them don’t line up too well. The Sebastian puppet looks like a prototype, something the original artist (who Blaine is certain had to be Andrew Smythe) was practicing on with the same intentions as Blaine. If Andrew thought so little of his son (as Blaine suspects from that entry in the journal), this seems likely.

So as guilty as it makes Blaine feel, starting with Sebastian seems like a good place to start.

Blaine sits Sebastian’s torso upright, leaning his back against the loveseat to keep him straight. He picks up Sebastian’s head and fits it to the neck joint, balancing it until it sits steady. He takes a length of wire he salvaged from the basement workshop off the table and works it through the holes where they meet up, using a pointed file to widen the holes that don’t quite match. After a great deal of fine tuning, he manages to fix Sebastian’s head to his body, and secure it so it won’t come off.

Blaine stands and bends backward at the waist, his back muscles aching from lifting boxes all day, and then from being stooped over this puppet. He looks at his handiwork sitting on the loveseat in front of him.

A wooden Sebastian Smythe with his head attached.

Yup. He looks even more disturbing than he did before.

But now Blaine feels confident he can fix Kurt’s neck.

Blaine grabs the wire and the file, and walks over to the sofa where Kurt’s body is laid out.

Blaine readjusts Kurt’s head, supporting his neck in a way that feels intimate. He runs his fingers over Kurt’s neck, images of kissing soft, unblemished skin filling his mind, along with a sweet, lavender smell that’s conspicuously new.

Blaine clears his throat as a way to erase the image from his head. He looks at the gap in Kurt’s neck where his head separates from his body. He sees where the original wire has loosened from the holes. If this injury had happened recently, it would have been just a matter of tightening the wires and winding them together. But time and moisture have rusted the wires through, leaving stains on the porcelain. The stains, in Blaine’s opinion, are almost as sacrilege as the damaged wires.

“I’ll get rid of those,” Blaine promises, returning to the dining room table. He finds a tub labeled ‘Porcelain Paste’ - a cleaning product he’s heard of before - and a chamois. He grabs them off the table and returns to Kurt. He carefully removes the rusted wires from the holes in Kurt’s neck. Then, dabbing gently at the goopy pink paste, he rubs the polish into the porcelain, removing the rust stains.

“There,” he says when the stains have been completely buffed away. “All gone. Now we can rethread some new wire in these holes, and your head should fit on your neck good as new.”

Blaine puts down the polish and picks up the wire, threading the holes in pairs, connecting the joint to itself, and then to the head, making sure that at the end of each juncture the head has a full range of motion while seated on the body.

When he’s done, Blaine smiles wide, moving Kurt’s head around on his neck.

“And that’s your gorgeous head back on your neck, Kurt. Does that feel better?”

Blaine hears a soft tinkle, like a wind chime ringing only in his head – a sound that could be mistaken for laughter if there was anyone else around him that could laugh.

Blaine looks down the length of Kurt’s body, at the shattered pieces and broken fragments. No amount of experimenting on Sebastian’s wooden body is going to help Blaine fix these splintered porcelain parts.

“One minute,” he says, raising a single finger in front of Kurt’s solitary eye. He retreats to the dining room table in search of glue or cement, or maybe a magic wand since it’s going to take as much miracle as skill to get these pieces back together. He’s overwhelmed by the amount of tubes on the table, all claiming to do different things for different materials. Blaine’s going to have to decide what he wants to tackle first before he chooses what adhesive to use.

Blaine returns to the sofa. He looks at Kurt’s legs and arms, then up at his one eye.

Thoughts of repairing Sebastian forgotten for now, Blaine decides on the part of Kurt he’s going to attempt to repair first.

His eye.

He wants to look into Kurt’s two beautiful blue-glass eyes.

Blaine looks through the pieces on the sofa. He knows he saw it – the eye socket with the glass eye still inside. Blaine felt it was such a good omen when he stumbled across it. Gluing the eye socket back in he might be able to do. Remake an eye socket out of scratch – not so much.

Blaine finds the piece and sets it aside, going back to the table for more supplies. He rummages through the various tubes and tubs of glues and pastes until he finds a combination that he thinks might do the trick. He grabs a piece of super fine grit sandpaper and returns to Kurt.

“I’m going to be very careful,” Blaine says, his heart pounding as he considers what he’s about to do. Repairing Kurt was the reason why he started this whole endeavor, why he gave up his commission and his salary in the first place. But now that the time has come, he feels like there’s more than just a broken puppet on the line.

He feels like if he doesn’t do this right, something important will be lost.

Blaine picks up the eye socket and examines the splintered edges. He roughs them up a touch with the sandpaper, then moves to Kurt’s head and does the same to the edges of the hole there. This way, after applying the glue, the edges will adhere better. Blaine fits the socket to the hole to ensure that the piece will fit, and then he starts gluing.

With a tube of pottery glue, he outlines both sets of edges – on the shattered piece, and then around the hole. The room around him has become so quiet, it’s fraying Blaine’s nerves. Even the waves outside seem to have stopped crashing against the shore while Blaine works.

He wants to talk to Kurt. He wants to tell him that he found out about Kurt’s dad, and about the terrible tragedy of his death. He wants to tell Kurt that’s he sorry, how his heart broke for Kurt when he heard. But those things happened in the past. They have nothing to do with this future. Blaine decides it’s an unnecessarily painful thing to drum up.

Blaine sets the eye socket into Kurt’s head. He picks up his chamois, and with a clean corner of the fabric, he wipes away the left over glue. When the surrounding porcelain is clean, he puts the chamois down and stares at both blue eyes at once.

“You know, I keep wondering what life would have been like if we knew each other,” Blaine begins, feeling this is a better path for conversation than dredging up a depressing past. “If we had gone to school together, if we had been friends. I think I would have liked you right away. I can just feel it …” Blaine rolls his eyes. “Wow. That sounded less corny in my head.”

That tinkling laugh returns, and Blaine holds his breath.

 _A wind chime,_  he convinces himself,  _from one of the other houses along the beach. That’s all it is. Just a wind chime. Not a laugh._

“I keep having dreams about you,” Blaine divulges, dropping his voice to a whisper, “about you and me … uh …” Blaine sits back a bit, careful not to dislodge the glued piece pressed beneath his fingertips. “Well, about you and me. You know, it’s stupid and preposterous and doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, Kurt, but even though I never knew you, I miss you.”

Blaine sighs, pulling his fingers away from the eye socket to check how it sits.

He has to look twice to believe what he’s seeing.

There are no cracks around the eye socket. The shattered star-pattern break is gone. The nicks knocked out of the porcelain that Blaine hadn’t even had the chance to touch-up are filled in and whole. Using barely two tablespoons of glue, the eye socket looks as good as new.

“What the …?”

Blaine blinks his eyes and looks closer. He lifts a finger and traces the eye socket all around. He can’t feel the break. It simply isn’t there anymore.

“Oh my God.” He picks up the tube of glue and reads the ingredients. “This stuff is _amazing_. Where the hell do you buy this stuff?” He considers Googling it, seeing if they still make it and how much it would cost to order it by the case.

Encouraged, Blaine decides right then to fix the rest of Kurt’s puppet. It will most likely take him through till the morning, but he doesn’t care. The first person scheduled at the house isn’t showing up till noon, and now that he’s started Kurt’s repairs, he can’t think of a good reason to stop.

He moves down Kurt’s body to his arm – the one that is shattered in  _less_  pieces than its mate. He starts with the larger chunks, treating them the same way as the eye socket. He roughs up the edges around the piece, roughs up the edges around the hole, and then applies glue to both pieces. On this shattered limb, it’s a daunting task, as eventually a broken piece will need to connect to another broken piece, and Blaine isn’t sure that he has enough of this mystical glue to make all those fragmented pieces stick.

“I heard you’re a singer,” Blaine continues, treading cautiously into what he knows is sensitive territory. “I’m a singer, too.”

Blaine doesn’t want to brag, even if it is to himself, so he moves along.

“I have so many questions,” he says, not even considering whether or not that’s an admission he should have kept to himself, because it naturally leads into  _questions about what, exactly_? Which will reveal the things that Blaine knows about Kurt’s past.

George Anderson’s voice returns to tutt disapprovingly in Blaine’s head as he moves on to repair the second arm.

 _“What are you doing, Blaine Devon Anderson!?”_ it scolds. _“Take a look at yourself. Look at your life now! Look at how you’re acting! You’re not a child anymore!”_

Blaine swallows hard, finishing up the arm and starting with the legs.

 _No_ , Blaine consoles himself. _He’s_  right, not his father. He feels it way down to the marrow in his bones. He’s right about this. He knows it. Blaine sifts through the broken pieces, sanding and gluing, fitting the puzzle of Kurt back together a piece at a time. He knows he’s rushing through the repair, but he needs to finish.

He needs to show his father that he’s right.

But Blaine starts to panic. Doubt causes him to panic, and panic causes Blaine’s fingers to tremble as he fits the final pieces into Kurt’s leg and glues them together.

His whole body trembling, Blaine sits back on his heels and waits. He believed so hard that putting Kurt back together would do  _something_ , start  _something_ , make  _something_  happen, but as he waits in the low light for Kurt to miraculously come to life, he knows it did nothing.

Blaine looks at Kurt’s unmoving face, his unbreathing puppet body.

His father’s voice is right. This  _is_  crazy. He’s talking to himself. No one else. Just him.

He has to face the facts. Maybe there _is_ an outrageous mystery in that Victorian house, waiting for someone to solve it, but that’s all.

It’s the bitter end of a long day, and Blaine is talking to _himself_ , to inanimate puppets, not Kurt and Sebastian.

Sebastian’s puppet was pushed off the loveseat by a cat. He didn’t move himself.

Kurt and Sebastian are dead – dead and buried - and have been for a long time.

Compulsion or not, Blaine is sympathetic to that house, to the things he’s seen, to the memories of heartache and despair. That’s all this is. His mind and heart are open conduits, always have been, searching out everyone else’s pain and taking it upon himself.

The story of Kurt, Sebastian, and their parents is a horrible, awful one, but Blaine can’t let it take over his life.

Blaine stands up and steps away, finding it hard to breathe.

 _NYADA_. He put his future at NYADA in jeopardy for this. He still owes the school thousands of dollars before the start of the fall semester, and he gave that away for  _puppets_! It was so spur of the moment when he did it; it had happened so fast. What was he thinking? Where else did he think he was going to get the money?

Blaine sits at the dining room table and hunches over. He rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his cupped hands, breathing in deep to stop hyperventilating.

Maybe what he did is fixable. Maybe if he humiliates himself beyond belief on air, Cooper will give him his commission back, and his salary. Even if Cooper only gives him half, it might be enough with the savings he has to get him to NYADA.

Blaine hears a whimper. It has to be his own voice, Blaine thinks. He’s on the verge of tears as it is. But what if it’s possibly …?

He raises his eyes and looks at the mostly completed Kurt puppet. He slides off the chair onto the floor and crawls over to the couch, his eyes locked on to the puppet’s vacant stare.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, staring deep into the puppet’s eyes, “if you’re in there, if you’re really here and you can hear me, _please_ say something.”

Blaine pleads to Kurt with watery, hazel eyes as Kurt’s eyes stare silently and blankly back.

“Blink your eyes,” Blaine begs. “Do something. Show me I’m not crazy. Please? Tell me I didn’t do all of this for nothing. Tell me I didn’t screw up again.”

Kurt lays still and silent. He’s just a puppet. Nothing special. Nothing more.

A sob lodges in Blaine’s throat.

Blaine’s parents are right. He  _is_  a screw up. He looks around himself at the living room and the dining room, at everything he threw his future away for.

Blaine has to put a stop to this – a full stop right now. The story of Kurt, Sebastian, and Andrew is a story – a sad story, but only a story - and Blaine is letting it affect him too much. Kurt is dead, long dead, and nothing Blaine can do will change that. Not putting together these puppets. Not throwing away his future. Blaine is a real live human being who’s lonely and sad because his parents, who he’d been close to all of his life, have completely rejected him, and he’s trying to find something to hold on to. He’s never had a real boyfriend and Kurt sounded like such a perfect fit. The two of them together could have been …

Ugh! He needs to stop torturing himself! He has to give this up. He is going to climb under his blanket, go to sleep, and when he wakes up in the morning, it’s going to be a brand new day for Blaine Anderson.

No more ghost stories.

No more puppets.

He ignores the mess around him. He closes up the photo album, shoving the loose pictures back inside, and dumps it on the dining room table. Too tired to remake his bed, he decides to pass out on the living room floor since his comforter and pillow are already there.

He doesn’t say a word to Kurt or Sebastian this time as he gets ready to go to sleep.

Blaine wraps himself tight in his blanket and puts his head down on the pillow. He sighs into the silence that surrounds him.

Silence.

Not serene, not peaceful, but dead silence.

So silent that a nearby clinking sound should catch Blaine’s attention, but it doesn’t. He won’t let it. No more banal noises attracting his notice as if they are of the utmost importance.

No. The world around him is full of people and animals and ordinary things that make noise, things that have nothing to do with ghosts or spirits. Very natural,  _normal_  things. A cat outside. The house settling. The waves rushing in and out, beating upon the shore. These are things that Blaine would like to return to.

Blaine empties his mind, preparing to focus on the future from here on out. Maybe he’ll hit the beach tomorrow. He can have dinner at that café he saw on the show  _Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives._  It might be a little pricey, but he deserves a treat. Who knows? Maybe he might meet someone to share an appetizer with.

Blaine sighs wistfully at the idea of a summer romance.

“Goodnight, Blaine.”

“Goodnight,” Blaine replies. Blaine breathes in deep. It takes Blaine a moment. He breathes in again … and then stops.

Blaine’s eyes pop back open, his lips quivering as they try to form words while he turns his head around.

The only word he can think of to say, unfortunately, turns out to be the hardest one to get out.

“K-K-K-Kurt?”

The blue eyes that Blaine has gotten so used to looking into are open wide, but they don’t seem vacant like they did before. The pale pink lips, usually frozen in one expression, split into a warm smile.

Porcelain edges click lightly as the puppet blinks his eyes.

“Hello, Blaine.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Blaine continues to stare at Kurt, who smiles back sweetly, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for a broken puppet to come to life and start talking.

“Hello, Blaine,” Kurt repeats. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Blaine can barely breathe. The room spins along with his brain stuck deciding between screaming and running, only it hasn’t committed to either one yet.

But his body sure as hell doesn’t need to be told twice.

Blaine scrambles backward, trying to stand up on the way. His feet tangle in his blanket and he falls hard on his tailbone. His hands flail in the air, reaching for something to steady him. He grabs for the chair by the dining room table, but only succeeds in shoving it across the floor where it falls with a loud  _CRACK_. Blaine takes one more lurch to the right and hits the scrolled leg of the table with his shoulder. He bolts upward and smacks his head on the underside.

Stunned, Blaine lays on his back on the floor beneath the dining room table, staring into the amused but concerned eyes of the puppet that he had seconds before been trying to coax to life. He doesn’t know if he should believe his own eyes, or his ears for that matter, but in his fruitless attempt to get away, Kurt’s smile has disappeared and the puppet has gone still. He lays on the sofa unblinking, unspeaking, but with that glint of intelligence shimmering in his glass eyes.

Blaine stares at Kurt, daring him to move, but Kurt doesn’t. Blaine’s eyes start to water. He begins to think that what he saw had to have been an illusion – a stress-induced hallucination. The voice he heard had to have been in his head, simply an echo of all the things he had imagined already, or possibly a sound bite from the television which he had neglected to turn off. The puppet blinking, that could have been a trick of the low light. He should replace the bulbs in the overhead fixture with a higher wattage. Squinting in its dim glow is killing his eyes. Perhaps he needs glasses …

Then, with a soft clinking sound, the puppet blinks again.

“Okay …” Blaine says out loud, needing to hear his own voice to know that he’s awake and not dreaming, “I think that maybe I’m a little over tired … or there’s a gas leak. There was a gas leak in the McKinley choir room when …” Blaine climbs out from beneath the table. He gets to his feet and heads for his room. He reasons with himself, trying to convince himself that he’s not losing his mind (not at all missing the irony of the fact that he was trying to get Kurt to talk to him moments ago to prove the same exact thing), but a voice behind him pleads, “Please, Blaine … please, don’t go.”

Blaine stops walking.

He reaches out a hand and turns off the television to see if that changes anything.

In the quiet of the room, he hears a heavy sigh.

“Blaine …”

Blaine shoots a glance at Sebastian sitting in the loveseat with a head but no arms and legs, making no movements or sounds whatsoever.

Then Blaine faces Kurt.

Kurt blinks again, but his smile hasn’t returned.

“Please,” Kurt begs, “don’t leave. I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to talk to you, but I …”

Blaine pads slowly back into the living room. He feels sluggish, like he’s walking through individual frames of a lucid dream. He wraps his arms around his torso, his hands gripping hard at his biceps, his body trembling from shock.

Maybe Blaine did wish for this, maybe this was the outcome he had been hoping for, but it’s mind-boggling (and slightly terrifying) to see this puppet talking on his own.

Kurt looks on hopefully as Blaine approaches.

“Look, I’ll stay quiet,” Kurt promises resignedly. “I’ll close my eyes and lay still just, please, don’t leave me.”

 _Don’t leave me_.

Those words fill Blaine’s head with images of that dreary, damp room in the basement of the Victorian house, that horrible cell where Kurt and Sebastian were kept for all those years, and Blaine snaps out of his stupor.

“You … you’re really talking to me,” Blaine whispers, kneeling at Kurt’s side in front of the sofa, “aren’t you?”

The bisque face with the iridescent blue eyes smiles.

“Yes, I am,” Kurt replies.

Blaine raises a shaking hand and presses gentle fingers to Kurt’s delicate skin. He traces a line from the center of Kurt’s forehead down to his chin.

“And … I’m not going crazy?” Blaine asks, retracing the line back to Kurt’s forehead.

Kurt chuckles, light and airily, the same as the sound in Blaine’s head that he had dismissed as wind chimes.

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Kurt says.

Blaine furrows his brow, confused. They stare at each other for a few tense moments until Blaine understands what Kurt said.

“A joke!” Blaine says triumphantly. “You … you just made a joke!”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but he laughs. “Well, I tried.”

Blaine nods, a fond smirk pulling up the right corner of his mouth. “It was good.”

The laughter between them fades and another tense silence returns. Kurt’s eyes gaze down his body lying vulnerable and disconnected on the sofa cushions.

“Uh … do you think there’s any chance that you might attach my arms and my legs to my body?” Kurt asks. Blaine watches in amazement as Kurt’s cheeks appear to color, as if his inanimate porcelain flesh might be capable of blushing.

 _Well, sure,_  Blaine thinks.  _As long as I’m imagining things …_

He’s not imagining it though. He knows he’s not, but it’s taking his brain longer than he’d like to come to terms with it. He reaches out a hand again, tracing the contours of Kurt’s lips to be sure.

Kurt’s eyes dart away, and the stain on his cheeks becomes darker.

“Yeah,” Blaine says. He pulls his hand away, not wanting to make Kurt uncomfortable. “Sure, I … oh …”

Blaine looks down the length of Kurt’s body, struck by the fact that Kurt isn’t wearing clothes. He is ambiguously constructed, but naked.

Which, of course, means that Sebastian is _also_ naked, but Blaine is only prepared to deal with one issue at a time.

Blaine’s hands hover over Kurt’s body, preparing to touch him, but he doesn’t see him as made of porcelain anymore. He sees him as flesh and blood … _naked_  flesh and blood.

“I … um …”

“What’s wrong?” Kurt asks, raising his head to look at the boy whose hands stutter amidst his limbs.

“Nothing,” Blaine says. “It’s only that I …”

“Yes?”

Blaine blows out a long breath to keep the nervous chuckles locked away in his throat. “You’re not wearing any clothes, Kurt,” he says outright, turning to look back in Kurt’s eyes.

Kurt’s face goes blank. His lips part in an expression of surprise, then a slow smile blossoms on his painted face. “That didn’t seem to bother you before,” he comments in a voice so smooth it borders on seductive.

Blaine’s whole body warms at the sound of it.

“No, it didn’t,” Blaine agrees, “but now you’re …”

“I’m broken,” Kurt interrupts. “Please, put me back together?”

Blaine inhales deep. “Of course,” he says. “Of course I will.”

Blaine finds the rest of the wire he brought over from the house underneath the sofa, shoved there unintentionally in his mad dash. He looks at the parts of Kurt’s body he has left to repair, and decides to start with Kurt’s arms first.

Kurt’s eyes follow Blaine’s fingers as Blaine positions his right arm. He lines up the holes in the shoulder joint, then buffs out any stains with the Porcelain Paste and his chamois before threading the wires through. Blaine feels Kurt’s eyes on him, his gaze burrowing beneath Blaine’s skin. An ember begins to simmer in Blaine’s stomach, growing hot and vibrant, lighting him up from the inside. This is all so unreal, but incredibly so. Blaine got his wish. For whatever reason or purpose that it serves in the universe, for however long it lasts, he gets time with Kurt.

Blaine pulls the wire taut on Kurt’s right shoulder and ties the ends off, snipping away the sharp edges. He then moves down Kurt’s upper arm to his elbow. He hears Kurt clear his throat - a tinkling like crackling glass, but an otherwise adorably shy sound. Blaine bites his lip to keep from giggling.

“Did you mean what you said?” Kurt asks.

“I’m going to need you to be more specific.” Blaine twists the wires to join them, and repositions Kurt’s arm so that the ends stay hidden. Then he continues on to Kurt’s wrist.

“W-when you said …” Kurt pauses, and the arm Blaine is repairing trembles. “When you said you have dreams of us … you know … together?”

Blaine bends Kurt’s wrist back and forth. He moves each finger one at a time, checking the finer movements of the smaller joints.

“Yes,” Blaine says. “It’s true. I did.”

Blaine risks a look at Kurt whose clear blue eyes stare at their combined hands.

“I thought about what it would have been like to know you, to go to school with you, to … uh …” Blaine stops at the words  _date_ ,  _touch_ ,  _kiss_ …

“W-why do you think you did?” Kurt asks. Blaine feels Kurt’s fingers move against his palm … Kurt moving them on his own.

Blaine shrugs.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he admits, watching Kurt make a fist, twist his wrist, and finally straighten his arm and bend the elbow. “I …”

_I what? I’m lonely? I think I’m high on mold spores from the house? I have a thing for puppets?_

_I saw all that stuff in your bedroom that I thought belonged to you until I found out you never lived there?_

Yikes. This isn’t starting out well.

Kurt turns his hand and waves in Blaine’s direction – a playful wiggle of his fingers. Blaine smiles. Then he frowns.

“Uh, you have some dirt on your fingertips.” Blaine takes Kurt’s hand in his and grabs his chamois again.

“Ugh! How uncouth!” Kurt exclaims.

“I’ll just give you a little manicure here and clear that up.” Blaine winks at Kurt and Kurt titters.

“What a gentleman,” he says with an exaggerated flutter of his eyelids.

Blaine carefully turns Kurt’s hand over and examines the stains. The dirt is dark grey and seems to be embedded in the porcelain, in rough scratches at the tips and the pads of Kurt’s fingers.

Blaine buffs the dirt away, but this stain is harder to clean than the rust stains. The color puts Blaine in mind of the walls in the basement room.

Blaine wants to know, but he shouldn’t ask. Now’s not the time.

But Blaine has so many questions burning inside his head, and Kurt might be his only key to answering them. Kurt has obviously been through an ordeal that Blaine can’t even fathom. He should wait and give Kurt time to come to terms with what’s happening to him, and in a perfect world Blaine would. But what if this is some sort of Cinderella deal? What if tomorrow evening rolls around and Kurt goes back to being a normal- _ish_ puppet again? Blaine has those journals, but the entries he’s read so far are vague. If they’re all like that, Blaine could read every one from beginning to end and be no closer to knowing anything than he is right now. What if Blaine loses Kurt forever and never finds out the truth?

He decides to go for it. He figures there are a hundred ways he can broach the subject; it’s only a matter of finding the least offensive one.

Then, unexpectedly, Kurt gives him an in.

“Thank you,” he says, watching Blaine scoop another dollop of Porcelain Paste onto his chamois to clean up the scratches, “for getting us out of that basement.”

“You’re welcome,” Blaine says with a reassuring smile. He keeps his eyes glued to his work, waits a second before diving in. “How did you guys get in that basement anyway?” He goes for nonchalant as he moves on to the left arm. Kurt flexes his fingers, raising them to his face and examining the finished product.

“I … I really don’t remember,” Kurt says sadly. “We’ve been down in that basement for so long, some of my memories just … _end_ at certain points.” Kurt shakes his head, his eyes narrowing as he tries to recall anything. “My first memory is of being in that room, listening to music on the radio, and that’s all.”

Blaine’s shoulders slump.

“I’m really sorry,” Kurt says. “I wish I could tell you more.”

“That’s alright,” Blaine covers, feeling tremendously guilty for pouting. “I was just curious.”

_Insanely curious._

Blaine leans over Kurt’s body and pulls on the wires that connect his left shoulder joint.

“So, Sebastian is your brother?” Blaine asks, hoping that this line of questioning might help trigger some memories.

“My brother?” Kurt sounds confused. “My brother’s name was Finn. Well, he was my _step_ brother.”

Blaine looks up from the elbow joint he’s threading to Kurt, whose eyes have flicked over to the wooden puppet.

“So, that’s Finn over there?” Blaine asks befuddled, following Kurt’s gaze to the other puppet.

“No,” Kurt says, “that’s Sebastian alright. Only he’s not my brother.”

“Oh.” Blaine turns back to the elbow joint and twists the wires tight. “So, he’s a …”

“He’s a friend,” Kurt explains with a sigh. It’s exasperated and wistful at the same time, full of regret and a touch of longing.

Blaine feels a small arrow shoot straight through his heart. Kurt watches Blaine’s fingers pause for a moment, then move on to his wrist.

“Oh!” Kurt laughs nervously, finally understanding the dejected boy leaning over his body. “Not _that_ kind of friend.”

“Oh.” Blaine smiles. He doesn’t like being so obvious but he can’t help it. He likes Kurt. He’s had days to start liking him and the feeling won’t seem to go away. 

“Are you going to put him back together, too?”

“I started to.” Blaine ducks his head to keep his blushing cheeks out of Kurt’s line of sight. “I wanted to get you fixed first.” Blaine moves from Kurt’s wrist up to his ear and leans in close. “To tell you the truth, Sebastian kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Kurt’s voice catches at Blaine’s closeness, but he laughs at his comment. “Sebastian!? Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s a big sweetheart, really.”

“Phew! That’s a relief,” Blaine says. He returns to his work, but he can’t help feeling that Kurt’s comment sounded a bit forced, like he doesn’t entirely believe it himself, and Blaine’s less than comforted.

“Has he … has he said anything?” Kurt asks.

“No, he hasn’t.” Blaine watches Kurt move his fixed left arm experimentally. He rolls his wrist and wiggles his fingers. Blaine sees more scratches on the fingertips of this hand, filled with more grey dirt.

“Oops … one minute.” Blaine grabs a hold of Kurt’s hand and starts cleaning the marks with his chamois and paste. Blaine tries not to show his worry as he works at the scratches. Two similar sets of scratches in the same spot on each hand, filled with the same dirt. They’re not just normal scratches either. Not the kind Kurt would have gotten from being dropped, or from running his fingers over a hard surface. These look violent, like everything else in that room.

They look like Kurt got them clawing his way away from something.

Or some _one_.

“Sebastian?” Kurt calls out, inexplicably cautious. If this other puppet is Kurt’s friend, why does he sound so apprehensive calling out his name? “Sebastian? Can you hear me?”

Blaine looks over his shoulder to where the wooden puppet sits. Sebastian doesn’t move, doesn’t blink his eyes, doesn’t make a sound.

“I don’t understand,” Kurt says. “He should be able to hear us. He should be able to respond. Why is he not …?”

“Maybe because I haven’t put him back together as much as I have you?” Blaine offers as an explanation.

The fingers of Kurt’s right hand tap skittishly against the wood frame of the sofa.

“Uh … actually …” If Kurt could have looked sheepish, he would have “… it wasn’t you putting me together that brought me back. I’ve … kinda … been here with you the whole time.”

“Oh.” Blaine puts Kurt’s hand down gently and moves to repairing his legs. He recalls the sickening, on edge feeling he had while starting this repair, how his hands shook after he placed each piece, how he strove for perfection, believing that that was the secret to bringing Kurt to life. But Kurt had been aware, locked inside that puppet, awake this whole time. Suddenly, Blaine feels very foolish.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Kurt rushes when he sees Blaine’s face drop. “You putting me back together is a gift, Blaine. One I will never, ever be able to repay. But Sebastian and I …” Kurt looks at the wooden puppet sitting stoically, watching them with empty, lifeless eyes “… we’ve been in that basement for a long time. A _long_ time …” Kurt sighs. When Blaine peeks up from the leg he’s repairing, Kurt’s eyes are distant, gazing out the window. “When we were first locked in there, all we had was each other. We talked and talked, as if being broken and stuck in a dark room was only a hiccup. We thought that we’d eventually find a way out or someone would rescue us. Then we could pursue our dreams, all of our original plans … our _human_ plans. But after a while, we knew no one was going to save us, so we stopped talking, stopped planning. It didn’t seem worth it. We knew we were done for, that if we didn’t pass away on our own somehow, we’d be forgotten and eventually demolished with that house. Th-that w-was one of my b-biggest fears.” A lump lodges in Blaine’s throat when he hears that confession, so large that he can’t find a way around it to comfort Kurt. “But we weren’t quite finished. We have heard time pass over our heads, heard it in conversations outside our door, and television shows from somewhere inside the house. I know all about progress and technology - things like microwaves and compact cars, cell phones and the Internet. We listened to life swirl by us, unable to raise a hand or lift a foot to meet it. It’s been frightening and lonely.” Kurt watches Blaine work his way from joint to joint, bending his leg at the knee to make sure the wiring fits the holes competently. When Blaine moves up to the hip of Kurt’s left leg, Kurt reaches out a hand to pull his focus, and glass eyes meet watery ones. “I’m so glad you found us, Blaine. You have no idea.”

Blaine covers the hand cupping his cheek with his own, and smiles through banished tears. “I’m glad I found you, too.”

Blaine works longer on Kurt’s legs than he did his arms, triple checking every joint, every connection, before he gives Kurt the go ahead to try and stand. Blaine puts an arm beneath Kurt’s arm and helps him to a sitting position. Kurt gasps at the change, his face beaming with happiness that might have turned to tears of joy if he’d had tears to shed.

“Looking good,” Blaine says, watching Kurt stretch his arms out ahead of him and wiggle his fingers, then straighten his legs and wiggle his toes. Kurt sets his feet down on the floor, pressing them firmly into the blanket Blaine has laid out. Blaine stands first. He reaches his hands out for Kurt and Kurt takes them, wrapping smooth porcelain fingers around warm human flesh and holding on tight. “Okay, on the count of three …”

Kurt nods at Blaine’s instruction, keeping his eyes on Blaine’s face.

“One … two …”

Before Blaine reaches three, Kurt vaults up off the couch. His foot slides beneath him, sending him stumbling forward into Blaine’s arms.

“Three.” Blaine finishes his countdown with a chuckle, speaking into the silky strands of Kurt’s hair. Blaine hadn’t really paid much attention to Kurt’s hair before other than to notice that it existed, but with it beneath his nose, tickling his face, it feels full and soft … and _human_.

Kurt shivers in Blaine’s arms, and Blaine’s fantasies resurface.

_“It feels like you … Everything is you … all around me … it’s you …”_

The breathy voice bounces around Blaine’s head and then dissolves away.

Kurt straightens in Blaine’s arms, elongating his back till he reaches his full height – an inch or two taller than Blaine.

“Hello, you,” Kurt says, his voice reminding Blaine of the one in his head.

“A-are you ready to walk?” Blaine asks. He’s still affected by that voice, but he puts that to the side and concentrates on Kurt’s legs, anxiously hoping the magical glue will hold.

“I … I think so.” Kurt takes a tentative half-step out of Blaine’s embrace. He takes a full step back, placing his right foot flat on the floor, then follows with the left, until Blaine is holding Kurt at arm’s length.

Then Kurt lets go.

He wobbles at first. Blaine prepares to rush forward if Kurt needs help, but Kurt stands steady on his own. Kurt looks down at his feet, then up at Blaine’s smiling face. He takes a step, then another, and another, his porcelain feet  _click click clicking_  across the wood.

“Oh, Blaine,” Kurt says with a giddy but contented sigh. “Blaine, look at me! I’m walking!”

“You’re doing great.” Blaine follows Kurt at a distance, letting Kurt feel freedom for the first time in decades with the assurance of Blaine’s arms not too far behind.

Kurt becomes more daring and extends his arms out, swaying them from side to side. He spins once and then continues on, shuffling across the floor like he’s dancing. He sways and spins until he reaches the point where he started. Blaine, anticipating Kurt’s path, circles back around the sofa while Kurt dances, so when Kurt reaches the start, he ends up back in Blaine’s arms.

“I … I can’t believe it,” Kurt says, looking at his arms and legs. “I can walk again!”

“Let me take a look?” Blaine requests, holding out a hand for Kurt’s arm. “I want to make sure everything held.” Kurt offers up his right arm and Blaine examines it closely, hoping that the stress of moving didn’t cause any new breaks. Blaine turns Kurt’s right arm into the light, and then picks up his left and examines that one, too. The hairline breaks, the tiny cracks, all the missing chips have healed – completely gone, leaving smooth, unblemished porcelain behind. He drops down to the floor, kneeling at Kurt’s feet. He looks over Kurt’s legs, brushing his nose against them as he gets the closest view possible, and finds the same thing – no nicks, no breaks, no scratches. Kurt’s limbs look as perfect as they must have on the first day they were fired.

Kurt’s legs shake when Blaine touches him, but Blaine is so agog at the undamaged porcelain that he doesn’t notice right away … until Kurt bumps Blaine accidentally on the cheek with his knee.

Blaine looks up at Kurt from where he’s crouched on the floor. Kurt’s arms are crossed over his chest, his cheeks flaming red.

“Can you feel that?” Blaine asks, running a hand down Kurt’s calf. Kurt jumps and takes a step back, teetering close to falling onto the couch.

“No,” Kurt says, “I can’t, but it’s still … I was wondering … if you might have something I could wear?”

Blaine has a thought about teasing Kurt for catching a sudden case of modesty after being so suggestive before, but he doesn’t - too excited about showing Kurt the suit he brought over from the house for him.

“I have just the thing.” Blaine stands up quickly. He settles Kurt down in the sofa, then rushes to the dining room. “I brought you this.” He picks up the suit, presenting it proudly to Kurt who at first smiles, then looks suspiciously devoid of emotion, and then horrified.

“Uh, th-that’s … that’s great,” Kurt says, his eyes glued to the suit. His porcelain lips set in a straight line and he grips the sofa for dear life. “But, d-do you think, m-maybe, I could wear something else? Um … maybe I could borrow something of yours? If it’s not too much trouble?” Kurt looks like he’s trying to swallow something hard that wants to break him at the presence of the suit. Blaine catches on, shoving the suit behind his back so Kurt doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

“Yeah, of course.” Blaine rushes to his room, walking backward as he passes Kurt so that Kurt doesn’t catch another glimpse of the offending outfit. Blaine feels slightly disappointed when he hangs the suit up in his closet. Blaine had longed to see him in it, the image of Kurt in that suit stamped crystal clear in his memory. But Kurt looked afraid of it, and Blaine has no intention of hurting Kurt further if he can help it. He rummages through his drawers for an extra t-shirt and pair of jogging pants. Kurt is taller than Blaine, and quite a bit thinner, but Blaine is sure that this particular pair of pants will do for now. They’re his brother’s cast offs. Blaine has to cuff them at the hem in order for them to fit. The only reason he kept them were because they were Abercrombie & Fitch.

Far be it for Blaine to turn away designer pants over a little thing like length.

Blaine returns to the living room with the new outfit over his arm to find Kurt has moved from the sofa to the dining room. He’s standing by the loveseat, bent over Sebastian’s wooden body. Kurt raises a hand and runs it down Sebastian’s cheek, whispering in his ear. Blaine can make out the dulcet tones of Kurt’s voice, but he can’t hear what Kurt is saying.

Blaine gives Kurt a moment longer to talk to his friend, then he clears his throat so as not to startle him. Kurt stands bolt upright, turning on an unsteady foot and toppling to the left. Blaine rushes forward to help him, grabbing him around the waist before he can fall. Blaine pulls Kurt up straight, his body light in Blaine’s arms, and Kurt ends up with his face inches from Blaine’s. Blaine’s eyes drop subconsciously to Kurt’s lips, painted pink and so human looking – so soft and pliant, like real skin.

Like the skin in his fantasies.

Kurt’s gaze drops the same way, but then returns to Blaine’s eyes.

“I found something for you to wear.” Blaine sets Kurt on the floor, only letting go after he’s steady on his feet. “It’s not all that stylish, but it’s comfortable.” Blaine holds the shirt and pants out to Kurt. Kurt smiles, relieved when he sees them.

“Thank you, Blaine.” Kurt takes the clothes one piece at a time, slipping the shirt on and then the pants. Kurt putting on clothes is an awkward process, surreal on top of that to watch a puppet dress himself. But Blaine willingly looks past that because Kurt is here. Kurt is here, and that starts to erase the melancholy of earlier when Blaine could only linger on how tragically short Kurt’s life had been cut.

Blaine looks sideways at Sebastian, motionless in light of everything going on. It makes Blaine feel uneasy. What if he’s trapped in there, watching, with no way to communicate?

What if he’s trapped in there, watching, biding his time?

“Do you think he’s okay?” Blaine asks in opposition to the question he wants to know the answer to – why is Kurt aware and Sebastian isn’t? But Kurt obviously doesn’t know that answer, so there’s no use dwelling.

“I don’t know.” Kurt turns back to his friend. “Maybe he gave up and went away. Or maybe he’s …” Kurt turns to Blaine, distressed. “Maybe he’s stuck.” Kurt sounds concerned, but as terrible as being stuck sounds, Blaine is willing to let that lie for the night. He would rather concentrate on Kurt.

“We’ll find a way to fix it,” Blaine says. “If it means that much to you, I’ll do my best to find a way.”

“Thank you, Blaine,” Kurt says, flashing his brightest smile yet. “Thank you so much … for everything.”

Blaine feels Kurt slip a hand into his, and Blaine wraps his fingers around it.

“You’re welc- _awww_ -m,” Blaine says, trying to hold back a yawn, but he can’t help himself. All of this is too much for his brain to handle. Coupled with the stress at the house and the fright of the unwelcomed cat visitor, he needs to get some sleep.

“Oh, no,” Kurt teases. “Am I losing you?”

“Hmmm, maybe a little,” Blaine mutters. “This has been a long and … kind of … confusing day.”

Blaine yawns again and Kurt laughs.

“Come on.” Kurt tugs on Blaine’s hand, leading him back to the sofa.

“No,” Blaine whines, “I want to stay up and talk to you.”

“You can talk to me when you wake up.” Kurt stretches out on the sofa cushions and Blaine crawls beneath his comforter.

“But, what if you go away?” Blaine asks. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

 _Don’t leave me_.

Kurt catches Blaine’s tired eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been around an awful long time, waiting to be rescued. You rescued me, and I’m not leaving now.”

Blaine nods, satisfied with Kurt’s answer. He rests his head on his pillow, finding the pathway to sleep easier than he had the past few nights.

“I’m glad you found me, Blaine,” Kurt whispers, running his fingers lightly through Blaine’s curls. “Thank you for putting me back together.”

Blaine relaxes instantaneously with Kurt playing with his hair. “Thanks for talking to me.”

Kurt watches Blaine’s breathing slow and then follows suit, closing his eyes and shutting off his thoughts, a small smile on his doll-like face.

Blaine drifts away, finally feeling at peace.

From behind him, on the loveseat, Sebastian blinks his green eyes.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Blaine was having a beautiful daydream before exhaustion and strain claimed him for their own, wrapping silky arms around him and dropping him into a deep, comfortable sleep. Seeing Kurt walk, talking to him, holding Kurt in his arms as if he were alive - it was the realization of everything Blaine had wanted since he found him.

And his mind gave that to him.

It’s a perfect form of closure before he continues on with the rest of his life, putting away childish things and giving up on fairytales and outlandishly happy endings.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t stay that way.

Shortly before he wakes, the nightmares start, every single one of them about Kurt - Kurt running for his life, scared, scratching frantically at … at  _something_. The tips of his porcelain fingers bleed as he claws to get away. He doesn’t care when fragments of his delicate skin start to chip off because he needs to escape, needs to climb out of the basement room and break free.

But there is no escape.

He’s backed into a corner with no place to run, no place to hide.

Kurt looks over his shoulder at the horrific thing pursuing him, his eyes shimmering with impossible tears. Assuming his fate, he squeezes them shut in anticipation of the blow to come.

And when it does, Blaine’s world explodes.

He feels the strike in his sleep, experiencing everything Kurt did, seeing through the puppet’s eyes. He doesn’t see  _what_  hits him exactly, but it feels hard, like steel. It strikes him on the forearm, shattering the bone. Blaine opens his mouth to scream, but the air in his body evaporates with the impact, and nothing but a choked gargle comes out.

His attacker strikes him again and again – on his shoulder, dislodging his arm; on his hip, cracking the joint; on his face, destroying his eye. He falls to the floor, alive but broken. His heart sinks in his chest as he watches legs clad in black pants walk backward out a narrow doorway, a pair of heavy boots stomping shards of porcelain as they go, grinding them into dust. A featureless face, obscured by the bright light of the room beyond, stares down at him. The door is pulled shut as his attacker leaves, and the room goes completely black.

The dream ends there, but Blaine’s mind remains blank for what seems like an endless stretch of time.

In the midst of oblivion, Blaine feels the morning call to him, pulling him from sleep way too early. He tries to shrug it off, but it niggles at him to at least open his eyes. He reluctantly blinks droopy eyelids, forcing them open against their will. He sees light at first, then blurry images, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s still dreaming. The room is coated in a bright haze – a band of morning sunlight glowing just above his head. He sees dust motes twirling in the air around him, hears the distant roar of the tide rushing for the shore.

His eyes sweep the living room. Kurt is lying on the sofa beside him with his eyes shut, one arm dangling over the edge from when he was running his fingers through Blaine’s hair. He looks almost completely human in this fog of ebbing sleep and low light. Blaine smiles at that, at his young face and calm expression, at peace for the moment regardless of his circumstances. It would be so nice if Kurt _were_ human, if he got the chance to pick up where he left off and be the person he was meant to be.

It would be nice if Blaine could follow that journey, see how his life story turns out.

Blaine rolls away from the sleeping puppet to get a glimpse at the time on his cell phone.

_4:23 a.m._

Blaine groans, the air in his lungs dense and oppressive, like a weight sitting on his chest. He can’t wake up before six – _preferably_ before eight. He needs to rest. But his mind is a whirlwind of activity, questions, and fading visions. He flicks his gaze up toward the dining room, taking inventory of the things he left lying around – the next best thing he can think of to counting sheep. He stops when he sees Sebastian peering down at him, painted green eyes open, his wooden mouth twisted into a sinister grin.

Blaine peers back.

He squints.

He sticks out his tongue and makes a face.

Sebastian’s grin grows wider.

Blaine nods. Now Blaine _knows_ there’s no way this can be real. Sebastian hasn’t woken. He isn’t aware. It’s a dream – all of it a dream. Blaine is alone, surrounded by his stupidity.

There is no Kurt or Sebastian anymore, and puppets don’t move and dance and speak.

He shuts his eyes, needing to block everything out and get a few more hours of sleep before he can function like a human being. With his head on his pillow and his eyelids closed, he drifts off in a matter of seconds.

“ _Blaine_?”

Something cold and hard touches his skin, and the nightmares flood back. He whimpers, fighting the terror keeping him trapped within its walls.

“ _Blaine_?”

The cold, hard touch gives him a gentle shake, but Blaine’s sleep addled mind reads it as the beginning of more pain.

“No,” he mutters. “No … please …”

“ _Blaine_?” The voice is soft, and Blaine finds comfort in it, but it’s a shallow comfort. If this voice, originating from a source of kindness and compassion, is there with him, then its innocent owner is going to be beaten and tortured alongside him.

Blaine has to protect him, no matter the cost.

 _“Blaine? Blaine, please?”_ A harder shake, a hand squeezing his arm, the cold and hard digging in to his flesh.

“No! Don’t! Stop! Let go!”

Blaine screams himself awake, sits upright on the floor. His head swims with the sudden jolt of his body, the room around him tipping and twirling. Sunlight plunges through his eyes and into his brain, burning away the rest of his dreams. He spins his head left and right, looking for reassurance that he’s not locked away in that basement cell.

That he’s not broken in a million pieces.         

“Blaine!” Hands on his shoulders shake him vigorously. His face snaps in their direction.

Kurt. It’s Kurt. Kurt the puppet. Kurt the  _living_  puppet, staring at him.

“Ku--Kurt?” Blaine blinks once, but then forces himself not to, afraid that one blink more will make Kurt disappear into thin air. But he can’t keep his itchy eyes open forever, and he blinks again. Then again. With each blink, his vision gets clearer, and Kurt’s face becomes sharper.

“Blaine, sweetheart.” Kurt cups Blaine’s cheek with his porcelain hand. “I think you were having a bad dream.”

Blaine covers Kurt’s hand with his, holding it flush against his flesh.

“You’re here,” Blaine whispers, shutting his eyes to absorb the cool comfort of  _Kurt_  into his skin.

“Yes, I’m here.” Kurt smiles shyly. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

Blaine nods, keeping Kurt’s hand pressed to his cheek for as long as possible. His breathing slows, the soothing effect of Kurt’s presence seeping into his body. When he opens his eyes, Kurt is staring back at him with a curious expression.

 _It wasn’t a dream_ , Blaine thinks with relief.  _Not a dream. Kurt is not a dream_.

But Blaine remembers one more thing he needs to check to make 100% sure he’s not dreaming. His gaze shifts to the loveseat where Sebastian sits, his position and expression utterly unchanged.

Blaine sighs, not quite with relief this time, but close enough. Maybe he  _is_  going crazy, but as long as he has Kurt there with him, he couldn’t care less. Where’s the crazy? Blaine invites the crazy.

Bring it on.

Blaine looks Kurt over from head to toe, drinking in the vision of the puppet dressed in his clothes, knowing that Kurt slept in them.

It’s a wonderful image to see first thing in the morning, especially after the nightmares he had.

“What are you doing up so early?” Blaine asks, hoping to segue past Kurt’s worried expression and his eventual hard-to-answer questions and into a comfortable, easygoing conversation.

Kurt’s eyes narrow. He knows Blaine is bypassing the issue of his nightmares, but he doesn’t want to pry. If Blaine wants to share them with him, he will. His face brightens, willing to change the subject if that’s what Blaine wants.

“I wanted to make you breakfast,” Kurt says, motioning with his chin to the dining room.

Blaine turns his face into the light, purposefully ignoring Sebastian while he takes a look. He sees a place mat on the table that wasn’t there before, with a glass of orange juice sitting on it. Beside the glass, there’s a plate of food, steam rising up from the surface. Blaine can’t see what’s on the plate, but he takes a deep breath in to settle himself and is greeted by the most glorious smell of eggs and bacon. He doesn’t often eat breakfast in the mornings, and when he does, it’s not at the house. He’s eaten more fast food meals than he would like to admit, which is becoming a problem for both his wallet and his waistline.

A home-cooked meal is a blessing.

He smiles at Kurt, grateful, and that beautiful stain of red returns to the puppet’s cheeks.

“Kurt!” Blaine rises to his feet, helping Kurt up as he does. “Thank you so much! But you didn’t have to do that.”

Kurt shakes his head, tsking as he leads Blaine to his meal. “I never understood that,” he says, a soft clinking noise chasing his words when his lips come together as he talks.

“Understand what?” Blaine reaches out for a chair to sit in but Kurt beats him to it, pulling it out so that Blaine can slide into the seat.

“When people say  _you didn’t have to do that_  instead of saying  _thank you_.” Kurt picks up a cloth napkin (Blaine didn’t even remember that they  _had_ cloth napkins at the house) and tucks the end into the collar of Blaine’s shirt. Blaine holds his breath when Kurt’s fingertips brush his skin, but Kurt doesn’t notice and continues on: “I mean, I know I didn’t _have_ to. I did it because I _wanted_ to. And it’s obviously too late now. I can’t uncook the bacon, or unscramble the eggs and stuff them back into their little shells.”

Blaine chuckles at the passion in Kurt’s voice, light-hearted as his tone is, but so sincere in his argument.

Kurt hands Blaine his fork, staring at him with a painted eyebrow arched.

“What?” he asks, slightly taken aback by Blaine’s reaction.

“Oh, nothing,” Blaine says, accepting the offered fork. “It’s just … I could listen to you talk all day.”

The blush in Kurt’s cheeks darkens. “Why, Blaine … uh, what’s your full name?”

Blaine tilts his head. “Why?” he asks, a sly grin pulling his lips.

Kurt plants his hands on his hips. “Because how am I to properly scold you if I don’t know your full name?”

“Oh,” Blaine says with another chuckle. “It’s Blaine Devon Anderson.”

“Blaine Devon Anderson.” Kurt lets the words roll through his mouth, dance over his tongue. The sound of Kurt saying Blaine’s full name so thoughtfully sends a wave of heat washing through Blaine’s body, flowing out to the tips of his limbs and back, settling finally – and unexpectedly - in the vicinity of his groin.

He crosses his legs at the knees to dull this new ache.

“Sh-shouldn’t I know  _your_  full name?” Blaine stammers. “In case I need to scold  _you_?”

The words tumble out before Blaine considers how they might come across in his breathy voice.

They sound unintentionally inappropriate.

The blush on Kurt’s cheeks flames so brightly, Blaine is surprised when the paint doesn’t melt off Kurt’s face.

“Not that you’ll be scolding me, but my given name is Kurt Elizabeth Hummel.”

“Kurt … Elizabeth … Hummel,” Blaine repeats, savoring each name as it passes over his lips.

Kurt’s flushed face reaches epic proportions. He brings his hands up to cover his burning cheeks.

“Y-yes. My name is Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, and … wh-what was I saying?”

“I believe you were scolding me.”

Blaine swallows hard when Kurt’s jaw drops.

Was he  _really_  thinking of kissing Kurt right now?

Was there a chance that Kurt was thinking about kissing _him_?

“Quite right,” Kurt says, accompanied by that strange cough that would be him clearing his throat if he were human. “Blaine Devon Anderson!” he starts again, trying to re-ignite the fire in his voice. “Are you getting fresh with me?”

“Uh … yes?” Blaine replies, not entirely familiar with Kurt’s turn of phrase.

Blaine realizes that might have been the wrong response when Kurt gasps in the most scandalized way. Blaine wants to apologize, but when Kurt starts to stutter, “Uh … uh …” at a loss for a response, Blaine bursts out laughing instead, snorting unattractively while he struggles to breathe.

“I---I’m s-sorry.” Blaine coughs, trying to kill his laughter without choking on his tongue. “Let’s start this over.” He puts down his fork and stands from his chair, facing the adorable puppet with the trembling lower lip. Blaine takes Kurt’s hands and holds them in his, rubbing over Kurt’s knobby knuckles with his thumbs. “Thank you for making me breakfast this morning, Kurt. I really appreciate it.” When Kurt doesn’t respond, Blaine takes a chance that he isn’t going to get himself slapped across the face and kisses Kurt’s cheek.

“O-oh.” Kurt puts a hand to his face, covering the kiss. “Um … you’re welcome.”

Blaine steps away to get another chair from the opposite side of the table and drags it over, setting it beside his own. He takes Kurt’s hand and leads him to it, pulling it out so the puppet can sit down. With a tongue-tied Kurt seated beside him, Blaine sits in his own chair and starts back in on his meal.

Kurt watches Blaine take the first bite of his eggs, scrutinizing his face as he chews. It’s so delicious, so decadent, so mouthwateringly tasty, that Blaine leans back in his chair and closes his eyes to devour it.

Without even thinking, he moans.

“Mmmm! Oh _Lord_ , that’s good!”

Kurt crosses his hands in his lap, running his tongue over his lips as he watches Blaine take another bite. It’s when Blaine goes in for a fourth forkful that he notices Kurt watching him.

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast, too?” Blaine asks, putting a hand over his mouth as he talks between chews.

“I … I can’t eat,” Kurt says, his heel tapping nervously against the floor with a staccato  _clickclickclickclick_.

Blaine gives himself a mental punch. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Kurt nods his bowed head, his eyes staring at his folded hands.

“Well, you’re an excellent cook,” Blaine says. “This is really good.”

“It’s just eggs,” Kurt says, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “But when I was … uh … when I … you know … I used to cook all the time.”

Blaine watches Kurt’s eyes go distant as he tries to recall the memory of his life – a life that has been over longer than he’s acknowledged. Blaine sits silently while Kurt mulls over his fuzzy thoughts, pulling them to the surface.

“I used to bake all the time with my mom,” he says. “She was so good at it … so much better than me. We made cakes, pies, and cookies all the time together. Every weekend during the summer, social groups in our town would have fundraisers or bake sales – the Daughters of the American Revolution, the Kiwanis, the Soroptimist Club …” Kurt’s words dwindle, and another distant look clouds his eyes.

“Was your mother a member of all those clubs?” Blaine asks, encouraging Kurt to give him a little more insight into his childhood.

“No, but my mom believed in supporting organizations that did good works, especially for women and children. We didn’t have much money to spare, but in a farming community, trading for milk, eggs, and flour is easy, so baking was the one way we could help out.” Kurt raises eyes full of emotion despite being made of glass. “It worked, too. Her sour cream, double-chocolate fudge brownies were legendary,” Kurt says proudly. “They were the toast of five counties. She won the blue ribbon for them at the Allen County Fair twelve years running.”

“Really?” Blaine discreetly finishes his eggs and moves on to his bacon, eating in part because he’s starving, but also because he doesn’t want to hurt Kurt’s feelings, especially when he’s telling this sensitive story.

“Yeah.” Kurt raises a hand to wipe away a tear, but drops it back to his lap when he remembers who he is now. “She baked all the time. She said that it was one of the ways that her mother taught her to show love, and she baked for me because she loved me so much, all the way up until …”

Kurt’s voice breaks, and Blaine’s heart along with it.

“Oh, Kurt.” Blaine gets out of his chair and kneels at the puppet’s feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Kurt sniffles - a pointless, ingrained reaction. “I---I didn’t remember until now. She was sick for a long time. She and my dad both knew, but they didn’t tell me because they knew there was nothing anyone could do for her, and they didn’t want me to be upset during her final years. She died a few months after I turned eight-years-old, sh--shortly after C—christmas ...”

Kurt crumbles. Blaine rises up on his knees to meet him, catching Kurt in his arms. Kurt’s chest heaves and he sobs – his cries muted, with not a single tear rolling down his face to show for his misery.

“I’m so sorry,” Blaine says under his breath, feeling impotent to help in any way.

Kurt shakes his head against Blaine’s shoulder. “Don’t be, please. It’s not your fault. None of this is  _your_  fault.”

Kurt’s voice thickens, and Blaine understands.

Kurt isn’t referring to his mother’s death.

It’s not  _Blaine’s_  fault that Kurt is here, trapped in this puppet body, alive beyond his time, reliving these awful memories of love and loss and God knows what else that’s going to crop up in the next few days.

It’s _someone’s_ fault, though. _Someone_ did this to him.

But that person isn’t Blaine.

“Kurt, may I ask you a question?” Blaine says when Kurt’s cries die down.

“Hmm?” Kurt looks into the hazel eyes shining at him with a touch of mischief highlighting their golden flecks.

“Do you happen to have the recipe for those brownies? Because they sound really good.”

Kurt stares a second. He sniffles one last time, then he laughs.

“No. Well, yeah. I mean, I know how to make them. I have that one memorized. All the rest are written down in a book that my mom gave me, but I lost it in the fi---“

Kurt sits up suddenly, shaking his head back and forth until his neck joint rattles, and Blaine becomes afraid that he cracked something.

“Hold on, Kurt,” he says in a soothing voice. He takes Kurt’s head in his hands and tries to hold it still long enough to examine it. Kurt’s body shudders, but he goes still at Blaine’s touch. Blaine tilts Kurt’s head gently to examine his neck. The joint looks sound except for a single wire that has become loose. Blaine twists the ends tight while running his fingers through Kurt’s hair – hair that has been brushed and styled since the night before. “It’s all right,” Blaine whispers. “Everything’s all right.”

“I know,” Kurt says. “I have a chance I didn’t have before, and I am so grateful for that … but it comes with a price.”

Blaine looks at Kurt’s face. His smile has disappeared. Blaine would do anything to make that smile return.

“Hey” - Blaine brushes Kurt’s hair back, enjoying touching Kurt in this intimate way - “I have some things I have to do today, but when I come back, do you want to go out and do something fun?”

Kurt’s whole face changes at Blaine’s question, and the carefree young boy from earlier this morning emerges.

It’s like turning a page.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Blaine Anderson?” he asks, the red color creeping into his cheeks again.

Blaine hadn’t intended it to be a date. He  _did_  want to ask Kurt out on a date, but Blaine thought it was too soon. He didn’t think that if he asked Kurt on a date, he would say yes.

But here they were, Kurt smiling up at him with that enticing flush on his pale face, looking adorably hopeful.

Instead of stumbling his way through a lame explanation and ruining this moment, Blaine simply says, “Yes.”

“Then I accept,” Kurt says, clapping his hands in front of his chest.

“Great.” Blaine stands, too excited to remain crouched on the ground, ready to get his work at the Victorian house started and finished so he can get to his date with Kurt.

His  _date_  with _Kurt_.

He’s still considering the improbability that such a concept even exists in the universe when he feels Kurt tugging at his shirt.

“Only …” Kurt stands, crowding close to Blaine, whispering in his ear “… would you mind if I came with you today? To your work?” Kurt peeks subconsciously at Sebastian. “I’ll stay out of the way, I promise. I won’t even get out of your car.”

Blaine peeks over at Sebastian, too. The wooden puppet hasn’t moved, but that doesn’t make him any less intimidating.

“Sure,” Blaine says. “D-did you want to see inside the house?”

“No.” Kurt answers before Blaine finishes asking his question. “No, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I just … need to get out. Get some fresh air, not stay locked inside another house. Does that make sense?”

“Of course it does,” Blaine says, deciding not to ask if Kurt’s request has anything to do with Sebastian’s puppet and everything he represents.

“You don’t mind?” Kurt asks with a small frown. “I don’t want to impose.”

“No! You’re not imposing. Are you … are you kidding?” Blaine’s words run over one another, and Kurt snickers.

“Alright, alright,” he says, taking Blaine’s hand. “I believe you. You know, you’re kind of cute when you get nervous.”

_“Are you nervous?” Kurt asks, troubling his lower lip as Blaine’s fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt._

_“A---a little,” Blaine admits. Just then, the button he’s undoing pops off. Kurt stifles a laugh as the little disk of plastic flies through the air in front of his face. “Okay, maybe more than a little, but it’s not because I don’t want to do this.”_

_“Then why?”_

_“Because I want this so badly,” Blaine explains, his voice wavering, his bravery slipping. “I … I want it so badly with_ you _, I mean. But I’ve never done this before, and I don’t want you to be disappointed.”_

_Kurt lies back on the pillow beneath his head and pulls Blaine along with him, giving in to his need for one more kiss before he lets Blaine remove the rest of his clothes._

_“I have waited so long for the perfect moment,” Kurt says. “The perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect person. I think most people want that, but unlike most people, I lucked out, because I got all four … especially the perfect person.”_

_Blaine ducks his head, smiling against Kurt’s skin._

_“You can’t disappoint me,” Kurt says, placing a kiss to Blaine’s curls. “Not even if you tried.”_

_Blaine presses a kiss to Kurt’s exposed neck, against soft_ human _skin._

 _“Blaine,” Kurt moans, prompting Blaine to kiss him again and again, each new moan eliciting a kiss._ _“Blaine … Blaine … Blaine …”_

“Blaine?” Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hand. It pulls Blaine from his fantasy and the image of Kurt lying in his bed, bare chested, eyes shut, moaning his name.

“Huh?” Blaine asks as Kurt’s face – his real, here now, _puppet_ face – comes into view.

“Do you need some more sleep? You kind of spaced out there for a second.”

“I guess I did,” Blaine agrees, the picture in his head dissolving until there’s not a wisp of it left. “But I’m fine. Wanna help me pick out what I’m going to wear today?”

“Oh, Mr. Anderson” - Kurt swoons, plying his flair for the melodramatic - “you do know the way to my heart. Lead me to your room and take me to your wardrobe, kind sir.”

Blaine laughs as he pushes Kurt toward his room, the sound of something wood tapping gently against wood lost amid the patter of their feet on the floor.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Blaine ushers a giggling and squirming Kurt through his bedroom door when a thought wallops him like a sledgehammer.

_The suit._

Blaine had forgotten about the suit.

The beautifully tailored but puzzling pariah suit that Blaine had brought back from the Victorian house.

The suit Blaine had wanted to see Kurt wear so he could relive the vision of the handsome young man with the sorrowful eyes.

The suit that Kurt seems to fear for unexplained reasons.

It’s still hanging in Blaine’s closet, where he had hastily shoved it among his shirts and slacks.

_Shit!_

Everything has been going so well between him and Kurt so far. Blaine was so excited over the prospects of a date with Kurt that he didn’t remember the suit until they walked into his bedroom and Kurt zeroed in on his closet. Blaine runs ahead to intercept him, sliding between Kurt and the door at the last minute. He covers the doorknob with his hand to keep Kurt from touching it. Kurt laughs.

“Blaine! What are you doing?”

“Uh … I just forgot. My closet … it’s a mess.”

“Oh, I don’t care about messes.” Kurt touches Blaine’s shoulder, giving him a hint to move out of the way.

“Oh, b-but this mess is massive …” Blaine says, making vague and ridiculous hand gestures in his attempt to dissuade him. “I mean, really, _really_ massive, and … and _smelly_ and …”

“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Kurt pushes Blaine’s shoulder this time, but Blaine doesn’t budge. Kurt takes a step back and puts his hands on his hips, his mouth twisting at the corner as he tries to think of a way around blockade Blaine. Kurt feigns for the doorknob, but pulls back when Blaine reaches out for him and stumbles. Kurt lunges forward and nudges Blaine aside with his hip, laughing at the look of distress on Blaine’s face that he’s sure is only part of Blaine’s teasing.

“A-ha!” Kurt grabs the doorknob, turns it, and pulls the door open.

“No, Kurt!” Blaine pleads. “Wait!”

“Too late!” Kurt says triumphantly, prepared to guffaw at the colossal disarray, but instead he is struck by how neat and tidy it is. “Oh!” Kurt groans. “Yes, I can see why you would want to keep this hidden! Your closet is atroc---“

Kurt’s voice cuts off the second he lays eyes on it.

The suit sticks out in Blaine’s closet like a sore thumb, a void among the bright colors and patterns of his wardrobe. Kurt’s jaw drops and he stares transfixed, unable to move his eyes away or utter a single word. Blaine fills in the silence with nervous chatter, livid with himself for being so damned absentminded.

“I am so sorry, Kurt,” he says, hands poised over Kurt’s shoulders as he tries to figure out a way to pull the puppet away. “I didn’t have any place to put it, and I thought … maybe … well, I didn’t know why you …”

Blaine sighs. Nothing he can think to say makes any sense. If he knew  _why_  the suit bothered Kurt so much, he would know how to better handle his response. He should have shoved it underneath his bed, but Blaine didn’t want to ruin it. He’d thought that maybe Kurt’s initial reaction, which he’d interpreted as fear, was simply shock, and that after some time had passed, Kurt might consider wearing it.

Kurt closes his mouth and raises a hand, reaching into the closet to touch the sleeve of the suit.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Kurt says. “It’s … it was given to me on the day I was broken. It’s not a day that I like to remember.”

As is becoming the norm, Blaine’s mouth speaks before his mind has a chance to censor it.

“Who broke you, Kurt?”

Kurt stares at the suit as if it might speak for him, give Blaine the answers he wants.

“I don’t … I don’t remember.” Kurt turns to Blaine, his glass eyes apologetic. “I really want to remember, believe it or not. I do, it’s only …”

“I had a dream,” Blaine reveals, “and in that dream, I saw you running. I think you were running through the house I took you from. Then, I became you - puppet you. I ran into that room in the basement where I found you, and someone I couldn’t see started to hit me with a hard object. It felt like metal maybe. Like a tire iron or …”

“No,” Kurt cuts in, shaking his head. “A bat. A baseball bat.” He runs his finger around the cuff, his eyes traveling up and down the fabric. “I wanted to be free. We both did - Sebastian and me. But he wouldn’t let us. He gave me this suit. He said that I belonged to him. Sebastian tried to reason with him …” Kurt’s expression becomes tight, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Sebastian stood up to him. He took the first blows for me.”

“ _Who_?” Blaine puts his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, turning the puppet to face him. “ _Who_ wouldn’t let you be free?”

Kurt drops the sleeve of the suit, letting go as the memory starts to leave him.

“Sebastian’s dad,” Kurt says. “Andrew Smythe.”

Blaine’s insides freeze, Kurt’s words taking hold of his heart and his stomach and turning them into solid stone. Whatever sympathy Blaine had felt for Andrew Smythe turns immediately into loathing. He makes the decision then and there that he _hates_ Andrew Smythe.

And he despises that Godforsaken suit.

He moves Kurt gently and sits him down on the bed. Then he turns back to the closet, tears the suit from the hanger, and rushes with it outside, bunching it up in his hands while he walks, forcing it into a tight ball.

He knows exactly what he wants to do with it.

He heads straight for the trashcan, opens the lid, and throws it inside. He takes one last look at it, piled in a heap over old fast food containers and other various, disgusting garbage items, and feels less than satisfied. If he had a match, he would set it on fire. He knows that Cooper would cringe if he saw what he was doing right now. The suit is vintage. It’s worth a few bucks. Blaine could probably sell it himself and make a few hundred off of it, but he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want anyone to have it. He wants to obliterate it from the planet and forget it ever existed.

When Blaine returns to his room, Kurt has an outfit laid out on the bed for him – a pair of chocolate brown pants and a maroon polo. Kurt goes back to the closet to retrieve a belt to match.

“I hope this is okay for today.” Kurt fingers a thin, maroon belt, then pulls it down from the rack.

“It’s perfect,” Blaine says, watching with satisfaction as Kurt’s smile returns. Kurt lays the belt across the waist of the pants, then stands to look at the pieces together.

“How do you do that?” Kurt asks, still appraising the clothes on the bed.

“Do what?” Blaine asks, the urge to put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders or hold Kurt in his arms overwhelming.

“The dream. That’s the nightmare you were having this morning, wasn’t it?” Kurt doesn’t wait for an answer. He doesn’t want to put pressure on Blaine to give him one. “But you weren’t there. You couldn’t have possibly known any of that stuff.”

“I don’t know really,” Blaine admits. “It’s not something I can turn on and off. It just sort of happens when it wants to happen. I don’t usually put a lot of weight on it, but the visions I’ve seen of you … they’re so vivid. So intense. They’re hard to ignore.”

“Do your parents know?” Kurt sits on the bed, and Blaine joins him.

“They do. My mom likes to call it my  _uncanny way of knowing things that I shouldn’t_.” Blaine emphasizes the words by making air quotes with his fingers. That definition of his mom’s has always been a point of contention between the two of them. It’s her way of saying that she thinks Blaine makes up the things he says he sees, they just happen to be right.

A lucky guess that’s correct 100% of the time.

“Like what things?”

“Like why my mom makes tuna casserole for dinner every Wednesday night.”

“Why does she?” Kurt crosses his legs and locks his hands around his knee, giving Blaine his undivided attention.

“My grandfather’s favorite meal was tuna casserole. When my mom was a little girl, they ate it every Wednesday night without fail. Once, when my grandmother had pneumonia, my grandfather tried his hand at making it, and it came out horrible. But they were poor and they didn’t have much else, so they ate it anyway.” Blaine laughs a small, wistful laugh, and Kurt echoes it, like maybe he has a similar story from his past.

“Your grandfather must have been quite a card,” Kurt says as his laughter fades.

“Not the way my mom tells it. But I wouldn’t know. My grandfather died before I was born, and my mom doesn’t talk about him much. Apparently there were _issues_ between my mom and her dad before he died.” Blaine pauses. He wants to tell Kurt everything, but there are parts of this story he’s never spoken out loud. He tries, but he can’t seem to make himself do it now. “Anyway, one night, when I was four, I guess, I asked her if grandpa would mind that she switched from cheddar cheese to American in the tuna casserole.”

“What did she say?” Kurt asks eagerly.

“She didn’t say anything. She just cried.” Blaine drops his eyes to Kurt’s hands and sighs. “When you’re a little kid, it’s kind of scary when your parents cry, you know? So, I didn’t tell them about any dreams I had for a long time. I didn’t want to make my parents upset.”

“I know how you feel,” Kurt says, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Was there anything else?”

Blaine sorts through his memories, smiling when he comes across one he finds he can tell Kurt.

“My dad played baseball in college, and I somehow knew that my dad owned a pair of lucky socks that he wore to every game … and that he never washed them.”

“Oh good heavens!” Kurt exclaims. “That’s _horrendous_!”

“Yeah. Now  _that_  will give you nightmares.”

Blaine lies back on the bed, and Kurt follows.

“Were you born with it?” Kurt asks.

“I think so. I mean, I don’t remember suffering from any trauma as a child. No knocks to the head, no comas, nothing like that.”

Kurt makes a motion with his mouth like he’s trying to bite his lower lip. “Does it ever work in reverse? Do you ever dream about things, and then they happen?”

Blaine laces his fingers together, rests his hands over his chest. “Yeah. I saw my grandmother the night she passed away. I was eight. I saw her sitting at the end of my bed. She said she came to say goodbye. She told me to take care of my parents and my brother.” Blaine chews the inside of his cheek. “But maybe that’s not what you were asking.”

Kurt rolls his head to face Blaine. “I’m sorry.” He reaches out his hand and lays it over Blaine’s twined fingers. Blaine grabs Kurt’s fingers between his own and holds Kurt’s hand over his heart.

“I see other things, too,” Blaine continues, “but I’m not sure they count.”

“Hmm? Like what?”

“I’ve seen my high school Glee club win show choir competitions. I’ll dream about the routines, see them step-by-step in my head. I hear the songs, the precise arrangement that we need to use. Then in the dream, when we win, I feel my fingers wrap around the trophy, and I know that’s exactly what we need to do. We do it, and we win. But I don’t know if that’s a premonition or just the power of positive thinking. Why do you ask?”

“Just wonderin’.” Kurt blushes and turns his face away, and Blaine immediately understands why he wants to know.

Blaine’s vision of the future – a future where Kurt and Blaine get to be together.

A future Blaine didn’t realize that Kurt might want.

“Um … why don’t I go throw together some sandwiches while you get dressed,” Kurt suggests, getting up from the bed. Kurt’s fingers slip smoothly from Blaine’s grasp.

Blaine is sad to feel them go.

Blaine’s not ready to leave. It might be nice to spend the day at the beach house, lie on the bed beside Kurt and waste the day talking about their lives.

He knows they can’t. Not right now, at least.

_Damn responsibility._

But maybe it’s something that Kurt would be willing to do later on.

“Okay,” Blaine says as Kurt hurries toward the bedroom door. He turns once to smile at Blaine, then heads for the kitchen.

Blaine rushes through getting dressed. He’s not anxious to get back to work on that Victorian monstrosity, but he  _is_  impatient to spend the day with Kurt. Kurt is still in the kitchen making sandwiches when Blaine walks out into the living room. The television is already on, presumably to keep Sebastian company, the wooden puppet turned a skosh on his loveseat to get a better view of the screen. Kurt has switched the channel to a station showing a baseball game. Blaine had put the old movies on for Kurt primarily. Sebastian must be more into sports.

Makes sense considering his room.

Over the voice of the sports announcer and the cheering of the crowd, Blaine hears Kurt singing an upbeat, old-fashioned tune. He can’t make out the words but that doesn’t matter, as long as Blaine can hear Kurt’s voice.

Blaine crouches beside his makeshift bed on the living room floor and picks up his cell phone, the banner on his lock screen showing that he has over a dozen messages.

“Come on, Gary,” Blaine mutters. “It’s nowhere near noon yet.” Blaine checks the messages as he walks out the front door to his van, but none of them are from Gary.

All of them are from Cooper.

Blaine pops the trunk hatch as he reads through them.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Remember to get as many shots as you can today. I’m doing a big edit and I need lots of sweeps and close-ups._

Blaine furrows his brow as he reads the message. Blaine knows what he needs to accomplish for the day. Same old crap, different house, different day. It’s not rocket science. Why Cooper is even concerned is beyond Blaine. He skips to the next message.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Remember, we have another live shoot in a couple of days. I need to know where you expect to be in the renovation by then._

That message is offensive to Blaine. Blaine isn’t the one that takes off to Vegas for the weekend without telling anybody, nor does he frequently forget live feeds, leaving someone else to fill in the gaps while they wait for him to answer his phone. When did Cooper wake up and decide to become Captain Work Ethic?

Blaine erases this message with extreme prejudice and moves on to the next one.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_I’m going to need the sketches of the rooms ASAP. I would like to post them to the website._

Cooper has never once asked to see the sketches before. Blaine always sends them to him, but Cooper has never outright asked for them. Besides that, Cooper isn’t in the habit of checking up on Blaine. This is definitely a new development.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Look, Blainers, if you’re too busy being a lazy ass to answer any of my text messages, could you do me the honor of calling me then? You know, when you’re not PLAYING WITH YOUR PUPPETS!_

Wow. Blaine can nearly hear Cooper yelling at him through the message on the screen. Lazy ass my … ass.

He erases that one as well.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Callmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallmecallme…_

The rest of the messages are a continuation of this last one, the words  _callmecallmecallmecallme_  running from one message to the next. Blaine scoffs, erasing the remaining messages and shoving his phone into his back pocket, in no mood to talk to his older brother.

_You’ve waited this long, Cooper. You can wait a bit longer._

Blaine examines the contents of his trunk. The boxes from earlier are in there, taking up the available space. He has to unload them. It would kill his gas mileage to drive around San Diego with his tail end dragging. But mostly, he doesn’t want to leave them there and chance Kurt finding them. The journals might trigger more of his memories, but it might be too much too soon.

Curiosity gnaws at Blaine’s brain. He wants the chance to go over them between filming today. He sees it as his only chance to read them. With Kurt aware, he doesn’t know when else he’ll find the time alone. He peeks around the end of the van for any sign of Kurt, but he’s completely alone. He opens the box closest to him and pulls three of the leather journals out at random. He checks the dates on the spines - 1924, 1926, and 1928. He hides them underneath a towel and closes the box up, preparing to take it inside.

_You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on …_

Blaine’s phone rings and he jumps. When the singing started, he had half-expected to see Kurt round the corner and discover him with the journals. He takes another peek around the van to make sure he’s still alone, then he grabs his phone out of the pocket of his pants.

“Cooper,” he grumbles when he sees the caller ID flash across the screen. “What a surprise.”

He’s being both sarcastic and honest. It  _is_  a surprise. As odd Cooper Anderson behavior goes, being this involved in a renovation is definitely bizarre. Blaine deliberates between answering and letting it go to voicemail, but since Cooper will only call back, Blaine decides to get this over with.

“What is it, Coop?” Blaine says in lieu of hello.

“Finally answering your phone, huh?” Cooper’s tone doesn’t sound out of the ordinary, but that means very little under the circumstances.

“Well, you know, after reading the seventh message I kind of got the impression there was something you needed to talk about.”

Blaine sandwiches the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can lift the box out of the trunk. He adjusts the box in his grip, then re-adjusts it, but the box is heavy, and carrying it while talking on the phone, awkward. He can’t get a perfect grasp of it, so he decides to put his faith in physics and sprint-walks into the beach house before he can lose his grip.

“I just wanted to know how things are going in your neck of the woods,” Cooper says.

“The same way it goes with every house,” Blaine grunts, straining to lower the box down to the floor and slide it underneath the dining room table.

“Yeah, only this isn’t like every other house, is it, Blainey?”  

Blaine makes his way back to the car and grabs another box. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cooper takes a breath in and lets it out before he answers. “You know what I mean.”

“No.” Blaine slides the second box beside the first. “I actually have _no_ idea.”

“Blaine, you gave up your commission for _puppets_! What do you think you’re doing!? You need that money for college! For _NYADA_!”

Blaine stands and puts a hand to his forehead. Here it is - the opening he had been hoping for. He can talk to his brother and get his commission back. Blaine isn’t scared of losing the puppets. His brother wouldn’t want them anyway. That had been an act for the show. He sounds so sincere in his concern, he might not even humiliate Blaine in return.

But in the grand tradition of Andersons, Cooper doesn’t know when to stop.

“I mean, you’re kind of proving mom and dad right, squirt, acting stupid and immature like this.”

Blaine stops breathing. He feels his ears burn with those words. How dare he? How dare Cooper, of all people, lecture Blaine on maturity? So what if the decision Blaine made with regard to the puppets was insane? Obviously, he’d been right, but Cooper doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know anything about Kurt and Sebastian. But Blaine is far from the irresponsible one. Blaine has his priorities straight. He’s a straight-A student, class president, head of the Glee club, a member of almost every McKinley High School club. He’s organized food drives, neighborhood clean-ups, pet adoptions ... Blaine Anderson is _not_ irresponsible, and if anyone in the world should stand by his side and trust his decisions, his family should.

“Look,” Blaine growls, fighting to keep his temper, “your house will be done on time and you’re going to come out ahead. After that, you won’t have to deal with any of my _immature crap_ , alright? In fact, you don’t even have to deal with it now. Whether or not I get enough money to go to NYADA isn’t your concern, so why don’t you just go back to whatever it was that you were doing that has nothing to do with caring about me or my future?”

“Blaine, I didn’t mean …”

Blaine hangs up and stuffs the phone in his pocket, determined not to answer Cooper’s calls or messages for the rest of the day. He continues to unload the boxes, dropping them unceremoniously onto the dining room floor and kicking them underneath the table, taking out his fury on them since his brother is not within kicking distance.

“I’ve got the sandwiches!” Kurt sings just as Blaine finishes sliding the final box beneath the table.

“Great!” Blaine says, overly bright, not wanting Kurt to worry about his petty problems. There are so many things Blaine has to consider now that Kurt is alive. There’s always the chance that this life of Kurt’s won’t last much longer and, regardless of his promises, Blaine will wake up one day and find that Kurt has moved on. On the flip side, it’s possible that Kurt could be immortal. He’s been around this long. Maybe he _can’t_ move on.

In that instance, Blaine will need to figure out a plan for the rest of Kurt’s life.

Kurt doesn’t have a house to return to. He owns nothing. Maybe Blaine can open some sort of trust for Kurt that will accrue interest for the future, capital that will continue to grow while Kurt lives off it (and Sebastian, too, if it comes to that). He’ll need to find out the specifics from someone who knows about these things.

All of these thoughts assault Blaine in a matter of seconds when Kurt says the word  _sandwiches_.

“Dear Lord, Blaine!” Kurt places a brown paper bag of sandwiches on the dining room table and hurries over to where Blaine is balling his fists at his sides, staring off into thin air. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Suddenly serious and looking apprehensively around, Kurt asks, “Y-you haven’t seen a ghost, have you? C-can you … can you do that? See ghosts, I mean?”

Blaine is about to reassure Kurt that he hasn’t, but after thinking over Kurt’s question - and the idea that a living puppet is afraid of _ghosts_ \- he can’t help laughing instead.

“No. No ghosts here.”

“Thank goodness!” Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine and hugs him in relief. “I don’t think I can handle ghosts!”

Blaine buries his head in Kurt’s neck. Kurt closes his eyes and breaths in – or mimics breathing in – imagining what Blaine must smell like. He might smell clean like Ivory soap, or musky like his dad’s cologne. Whatever the smell is, it’s uniquely _Blaine_. That Kurt knows for sure. It’s warm and spicy and sweet and sensual and all Blaine.

Kurt wishes he could know what that smells like.

“Thanks for the sandwiches,” Blaine says.

“You’re welcome. I hope you like ham and cheese.”

“I do.” Blaine runs a hand up and down Kurt’s back, feeling his porcelain spine beneath his shirt. “Are you okay going out in these clothes? I’m not sure I have anything else that would fit you. I’d have to look around.”

“No! No, these are great! But, I might need some shoes.”

“Shoes, hmm? I don’t think my shoes are big enough for you, and I don’t want to risk crushing your feet. I think I might have a pair of flip-flops you can borrow. Those should do for now.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Kurt’s heard of flip-flops but he hasn’t worn a pair before. He’s sure that if Blaine recommends them, then they’ll be fine.

“So, shall we get going?” Blaine asks, not willing to let go of Kurt yet.

“Yeah,” Kurt says, not quite ready to let go of Blaine either.

“Okay.” Blaine hesitantly pulls out of the puppet’s arms. “I think they’re in the car though, so I’m going to have to carry you.”

Kurt is struck speechless by Blaine’s suggestion, but Blaine has the bag of sandwiches in his grasp and Kurt up in his arms before he can object.

“Oh!”

“Is this alright?”

Kurt giggles, looping his arms around Blaine’s neck. “Absolutely.”

“Hold on tight. Here we go.” Blaine takes great care not to knock Kurt’s legs as he walks through the doorway. He shuts the door with his foot, and uses one hand to lock up the house behind them.

The beach house is quiet and still again with Kurt and Blaine gone except for the television with the game playing on the screen, and a small tabby cat, completely unnoticed when it crept in, sitting beneath the loveseat and waiting … patiently.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for a few dated homophobic slurs.

Driving with Kurt turns into a major distraction for Blaine as the blue-eyed puppet stares up at the sky through the open window and sighs every five seconds.

“Oh, Blaine” - Kurt closes his eyes against the wind as the minivan breezes down the highway - “it’s nothing like I remember it.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Blaine asks, sneaking a peek at the puppet pulling his head in from the open window.

Kurt presses the button to close it, shutting it half way, then presses it again, lowering it an inch. He has developed a fascination with the buttons and switches that control things in the van – the door locks, the window switch, the seat adjuster. It had been adorable to watch Kurt spend the first five minutes of their trip swaying back and forth and up and down as he adjusted and re-adjusted his seat over and over.

“Both,” Kurt concludes after a pause. “I mean, I’m all for progress, and highways and tall buildings are a part of human civilization moving forward, but I don’t know …” He gazes out at the edge of the highway, where store after store and building after building blurs by. “There’s just something to be said about driving slowly down a dirt road and hearing the gravel underneath the tires, the birds flying overhead, seeing houses surrounded by green grass, cows grazing, and a chicken coop in the front yard, white picket fences, laundry hanging from a line …” Kurt sighs again, probably his hundredth sigh in the last half hour. But it’s peaceful, and Blaine knows he’ll never get tired of it. “I think I’m just an old-fashioned, silly romantic. The world has changed so much since I last saw it. I think I’m going to spend a lot of time playing catch up.”

Blaine wants to reassure Kurt that playing catch up in this new time period will be easy, but he bites his lip to stop himself. It  _won’t_  be easy for Kurt. Blaine knows it. And patronizing Kurt won’t change that. He comes up with something instead that he hopes will mean more to Kurt, give him something more substantial to hold on to.

“However long it takes,” he says, “I’ll be here to help you.”

Kurt’s glass eyes reflect the sunlight and blue sky overhead, making them look like they’re swimming with unshed tears. “Really?”

Blaine smiles. “I promise.”

As they turn onto Harbor Drive, Blaine’s eyes shift periodically to Kurt’s face, trying to gauge his reaction to returning to the house where he had been trapped for so long. But as they approach the old Victorian, Kurt settles back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

Blaine doesn’t ask. He understands.

Kurt isn’t ready to see it.

Gary’s U-Haul is parked by the curb out front. Standing beside it are Gary and two other men he brought with him to help. The first guy, Ted, Blaine knows. He’s a few years older than Blaine and studying occupational therapy at San Diego State University. Ted met Gary years ago when Ted was on the search for a porcelain doll for his mother for her birthday. It turned out that authenticating vintage dolls was a hidden hobby of Ted’s, and the day he walked into Gary’s shop, he rescued Gary from spending a fortune on dolls that turned out to be incredibly well-made counterfeits.

The other gentleman – an older man – Blaine doesn’t recognize. He’s standing off on his own reading a hefty, leather-bound book, while Gary and Ted talk over their game plan for the rest of the toys in the house. This man couldn’t be any more different from Gary and Ted if he tried. Where the other two men are wearing polo shirts and jeans, this older man is wearing a three-piece suit. He’s trim and tall, with generous flecks of silver interspersed in his stark black hair. Narrow reading glasses sit perched at the tip of his long, thin nose. His lips move as he reads, ignoring the other two men and their constant jabber.

From the looks of things, only Gary and his crew have arrived so far, which means everyone else would be showing up later on, while Blaine is inside the house and Kurt outside. Blaine hadn’t anticipated that. Usually everyone on the renovation team gets to a project house early. He doesn’t want anyone bothering Kurt when they arrive.

Blaine leans over to Kurt’s seat. “Okay, I’m going to be a couple of hours, but I’ll be in and out, so I’ll check in on you to make sure you’re alright.”

Kurt doesn’t open his eyes but he smiles, turning his face in the direction of Blaine’s voice. “Oh, Blaine, you  _are_  a gentleman. But don’t worry too much about me. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Blaine looks at Kurt’s face, serene and sparkling in the daylight. He’s staring, he knows it, but he can’t help it. Kurt is such an attractive puppet. He has such a kind and honest face. There are many compliments Blaine could give to Kurt in that regard that, unfortunately, wouldn’t be compliments at all. Blaine could say that Kurt is beautiful, which he is, but that might be more a comment on the masterful way he was made, and therefore a compliment to Andrew’s workmanship. Blaine would rather cut out his tongue than compliment that monster. Blaine could say that Kurt is handsome, as he was in all of those black and white photographs Blaine saw, but that would be a compliment to the person he _was_.

A person who doesn’t entirely exist anymore.

Whoever Kurt is, whatever he is, whatever miracle brought him to be, Blaine adores him - shamelessly so.

Of all the crazy, outlandish, off-the-wall things that could happen to Blaine, he has a thing for a puppet.

Go figure.

“Blaine?” Kurt whispers, his smile growing wider. “Are you planning on leaving anytime soon, or are you going to stare at me all day?”

Blaine’s cheeks go from tan to scarlet in award-winning time.

“I was … I was just wondering … uh …” He clears his throat “… if you’re going to be okay sitting here, or if you need a book to read or something.”

Blaine clamps his jaw shut when he remembers the only things he has in the van to read are the journals in the trunk.

“I’m fine,” Kurt assures him, “except …”

_Uh-oh … he does want to read. Shit!_

“Except …” Blaine repeats anxiously.

“If you can maybe find me some paper and a pencil? I would like to sketch.”

“Sketch?” Blaine mentally breathes a sigh of relief.

“Yes. I design clothes.” Kurt sounds contrite, like he’s apologizing for this thing that he enjoys, and Blaine longs to ask him who might have given him the impression that designing clothes was a bad thing. Kurt’s mother doesn’t sound like the type to discourage her son from a hobby like sewing, and Andrew, for all his faults, included a sewing machine in Kurt’s room, so it couldn’t have been him.

“Of course,” Blaine says, opening his door. “I’m sure I can dig some up. Give me a moment.”

“Mm-hmm.” Kurt hums as he reaches for the button to recline the seat. “Take your time.”

Blaine hops out and shuts the door behind him. Cheers and applause go up from Gary and Ted, who wave his way, hooting and hollering like the over-excited fools they are. Blaine smiles and waves back, heading for his trunk.

“I’ll open up the house in a second,” he calls out, knowing that Gary is drooling to get his hands on the rest of those toys. Blaine admires Gary really. He’s living his dream - he owns his own business, makes enough to support himself in an expensive city like San Diego, and most importantly, he enjoys what he does.

If Blaine can achieve half of that, he’ll consider himself fortunate.

Blaine knows he has a notebook somewhere in the trunk, but with all of the things he’s packed and unpacked in the last few days, he doesn’t know where it ended up. He rustles through the usual automotive junk – first aid kit, jumper cables, a bottle of Armor All. He comes across a roll of paper towels and a half used bottle of Windex that he doesn’t remember ever seeing , but there it is, and it reminds him of the posters hanging in the kitchen – the ones with dust caked on so thick Blaine couldn’t see through it. He pulls them out, keeping a hold of them while he keeps looking. Underneath the backseat he finds his notebook, with a pencil shoved inside the spiral rings. He grabs it along with the three journals, hiding them strategically between his body and the cleaning supplies. He closes the trunk and walks over to Kurt’s window.

“Here you go,” he says, laying the notebook on the lap of the resting puppet.

“Thank you, Blaine,” Kurt says with eyes still closed. “Now go. I’ll be fine. I promise.” And he blows Blaine a kiss.

Blaine feels it land against his cheek as if it were a real, palpable thing.

“Alright, Kurt,” Blaine says, noticing how Kurt’s smile grows when he says his name.

Blaine heads to the house, gesturing to the other men with one wide wave. All three men look at Blaine’s van as they pass. Though none of them are close enough to peek inside and see Kurt stretched out in the front seat with his eyes shut, they must have caught a glimpse of him because he’s the first thing Gary mentions as Blaine starts unlocking the house.

“So, you’re driving around with them, Blaine?” he asks, sounding disturbed but amused by Blaine’s choice of company. “Is this a legitimate obsession, or just an attempt to defraud your way into the carpool lane?”

Blaine decides not to argue with Gary, knowing he’s mainly teasing him.

“You know, Gary,” Blaine says, sticking a key into the front door, “as an adult man who plays with dolls, I would think that _you,_ of all people, might understand.”

“Wait,” Ted says. “You guys aren’t kidding, are you? You brought the puppet _with_ you, Blaine!?”

Blaine turns and shoots Gary an accusing glance as the door swings open and he leads the trio inside.

“You told him?”

“I’m sorry, Blaine,” Gary says, not sounding sorry at all. “It just … came up.”

“What in the world were you guys talking about that the subject of my puppets came up in conversation?” Blaine props the door open, then starts pulling the drapes.

“Cheeseburgers,” both men answer in unison, leaving Blaine to shake his head.

“You took one of the puppets?” the older man sneers, speaking for the first time.

“Blaine” - Gary steps in before a potential argument breaks out - “this is Alex Norton. He specializes in Vaudeville culture, and he’s very interested in the puppets.”

“I  _purchased_ two of the puppets,” Blaine clarifies to the man staring him down through the wafer thin lenses of his spectacles, “from my brother, who owns the house and everything in it.”

“So, you purchased them without knowing what they’re worth?” The man’s nostrils flare with contained anger.

“I paid quite a bit for them,” Blaine says in his defense, swallowing a comment about the loss of his paycheck. “I’m pretty sure my brother got what they’re worth.”

“Like I said,” Gary interrupts, “he didn’t buy any of the franchised puppets, just two handmade puppets that were trashed in the basement.”

“Made by the original owner of the house, yes?” Alex over-enunciates each word, unnecessarily in Blaine’s opinion. “Andrew Smythe?”

Blaine bristles at the name. “What difference does that make?”

“That makes the puppets of historical significance.” Alex straightens, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Therefore, I will need to see the puppets.” Alex stares at Blaine, waiting to be lead out to his van, Blaine assumes.

“No,” Blaine says.

“No?” Alex repeats contemptuously, his glasses beginning to slide their way back down his nose.

“No.” Blaine stands firm. “You are free to see any puppet in the house, but those two are my personal property. They’re not available for you to see.”

“They are the only existing examples of Andrew Smythe’s attempts to make human-sized puppets,” Alex argues, leaning in in an attempt to intimidate him.

“Too bad,” Blaine says. “You can’t see them.”

Alex stares at Blaine and Blaine stares back, the air between them electric, waiting for a spark to set it off.

“Okay, guys,” Ted intercedes, hoping to diffuse the tension, “we have a lot of work to do. If Blaine doesn’t want to show off his puppets, he doesn’t have to.”

Alex’s upper lip curls, baring his teeth. He knows he’s lost, but his eyes darken nonetheless.

“Fine,” he says, the word a growl inside his locked jaw. He stands up straight, fixes his glasses on his nose again, and walks off as if he knows where he’s going.

Blaine watches him carefully, concerned with how comfortable he seems in the house.

“I apologize about that,” Gary says. “He’s … really passionate about his work.”

“Apparently,” Blaine says, thankful that Kurt is safe in the minivan outside, and that even Sebastian is securely locked up in the beach house.

“Come on.” Gary claps Blaine on the back as he eyes the man heading for the hallway. “Let’s get to work so I can get these glorious tin toys back to my shop.”

Blaine peeks out the window to make sure Kurt can’t be seen, then heads off down the hallway himself. He holds his head high as he passes Alex on the way to the dining room, barely giving the man any berth as he hustles by. Alex grumbles something beneath his breath, but Blaine doesn’t pay enough attention to pick up the remark. He heads straight for the posters hanging on the dining room walls and begins spraying the glass with Windex. He puts his books and supplies on the table and waits as the blue liquid cuts through years of grease and grime, spreading through the muck like fingernails scraping it off. He sprays each poster frame a few more times before he starts tearing paper towels from the roll and wiping, cleaning the glass completely before he steps back and takes a good look at them.

He was right in assuming they were theater posters – twenty in all, each one hung in order showing the rise and fall of “The Great” (a superlative he adds in his head with a sarcastic snarl) Andrew Smythe. The poster on the far left starts with Andrew’s act listed at the bottom in the tiniest type conceivable. As time progresses, Andrew’s listing on the bill rises. His act becomes  _‘Andrew and Sons’,_ written in larger and larger typeface until _bam_! There he is - his face big as life. And even though his act is still titled  _‘Andrew and Sons’_ , the picture on the poster is of him alone with a puppet sitting on his lap – Sammy, more than likely. A couple more posters have his face on them, but then a new face takes its place and his act, now listed as _‘The Great Andrew Smythe’_ , shrinks back down the list of names until it’s barely legible.

“Ah. The demise of The Great Andrew Smythe,” a nasally voice echoes through the room. “Tragic.”

“Yes,” Blaine says, “if you believe Andrew Smythe  _was_  great.”

Alex tilts his head and stares at Blaine aghast.

“He was one of the greatest performers of his time.”

“Maybe, but he was a crap father.”

Alex jerks back, scrunching his nose as if he’d smelled something offensive when Blaine opened his mouth. “How could you possibly know that?”

Blaine shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes flicking subconsciously to the journals on the table. “I’ve been doing research.”

“Well, did your  _research_  tell you that being a good parent wasn’t a pre-requisite for being an excellent performer? Nobody in particular cared  _how_ he treated his children.”

Alex makes this statement with such an absence of emotion that it feels like a slap in the face.

“To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t care less about Andrew Smythe _or_ his precious act.”

“And yet you apparently spent a considerable amount of money to purchase two of his rarest puppets, which are now so important to you that you won’t let anyone see them.”

“That’s my business,” Blaine says, wanting a quick end to this so he can find a quiet spot and start reading the journals.

“And what about these posters?” Alex asks, pointing to the walls. “Are they to become victims of your indiscernible personal collecting habits, too?”

“No. _They’re_ being donated to the San Diego Historical Society for their exhibit on Vaudeville,” Blaine says with a sardonic twist to his lips. “I hear it’s excellent. Very informative. You should go check it out.” _Now would be nice_ , he thinks. He picks the journals up off the table. Alex watches him, zeroing in on the books in Blaine’s hands as if he recognizes them.

“What are those?” he asks, reaching out a hand like he’s planning to grab them away, but Blaine pulls them towards his chest.

“Homework,” Blaine answers sharply as he brushes past, heading down the hallway and back toward the living room. He decides to plant himself next to the living room window and wait for the other members of the team to arrive. With Alex in the house, Blaine needs to keep an eye on Kurt. He can’t see Kurt from the window because the puppet is lying back in his seat, but Blaine’s not taking the chance of Alex slipping out unseen and harassing him.

He leans his head against the glass and looks at the journals, trying to decide where he wants to start first. Figuring that going in order will be less confusing in the long run, he opens the journal dated 1924.

_March 5 -_

_Dear Margaret –_

_Our little nine-year-old is quite the recluse. He also has one hell of a left hook, and because of that we are no longer with the Henderson and Co. traveling show. That’s alright, though. I always thought they were stealing from the till, anyhow. So what if it took their little bastard Billy getting a black eye for us to leave that roadside freak show? I know that traveling can be hard on Sebastian, but I think it’s just because he misses you that he acts out this way. He needs a friend. Hopefully we can glom on to another traveling show that has kids down the line. Who knows what will come our way? I love you and miss you always._

_July 6 –_

_Dear Margaret –_

_I think I might have found the solution to the problem with our Sebastian … and his name is Kurt Hummel. We just finished a show in Columbus, and on our way through Lima, we found him. Well, Sebastian found him. He’s not much more than a slip of a boy, with the thickest head of brown hair you’ve ever seen, but he’s clean and polite and has a voice like an angel. If I didn’t know better, I would say that Sebby was quite taken with him. He was probably just blown away by this kid’s talent like I was. But there’s something different about this boy. He’s special – not only his voice, but the way he behaves, as if performing isn’t something he does, it’s something he is. I’m hoping that his father will let the boy come with us. I introduced myself, told him my piece, but the man became suspicious as all get out. I could just let the matter be, but I really think having Kurt in our act would be a God send. Wish us luck, Margaret._

_July 30 –_

_Dear Margaret -_

_By golly, it worked. My sweet new acquisition has tamed your unruly son. The two rug-rats are thick as thieves. It’s almost like having you back here with us, Maggy. He cooks, he cleans, he sings all the time. From morning to evening, he fills the house with music. I feel bad for his papa though - losing a wife and now a son - but I promised the man I’d raise his son proper. Maybe with his talent in the mix we’ll finally make it to Europe like we always planned. Can’t you just picture it, Maggy? Headlining in Paris?_

“Hey, Blaine,” Gary calls, his arms wrapped around a box filled with carefully wrapped metal toys, “aren’t you supposed to be filming us or something?”

Blaine doesn’t look up from the journal when he reaches a hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his webcam. He switches it on and points it in Gary’s general direction. Gary chuckles.

“You know, Cooper’s going to be pissed,” Gary says, adjusting the box in his arms and heading for the door.

“Yeah, well …” Blaine lets the comment die off as he closes the first journal and opens the second one.

_March 14 –_

_Dear Margaret -_

_Boy, that Kurt is sharp as a pin. Every day he spends with us, I learn something new. Here he’s been with us for almost a year and I didn’t know he spoke French. Says his mom taught him when he was little. She must have been one hell of a woman, just like you, Maggy._

_August 21 -_

_Dear Margaret -_

_I was a little worried taking Kurt on that he’d be sort of … delicate. You’d understand if you saw him. But he’s no nancy, I’ll tell you that. Kurt and Seb got themselves into one heck of a tussle the other day – the two of them against four older boys, all of them a foot taller, and boy oh boy, did Kurt lick ‘em good. Of course, I told them that I wouldn’t stand by fighting, not while we’re trying to make a respectable name for ourselves in the higher paying houses in town. And I disciplined them. I didn’t lay a hand on Kurt. It don’t feel right giving a hiding to another man’s son and besides, I’m pretty sure it was Sebastian’s mouth that got them into all that trouble, so he got a few extra lashings with the belt to teach him. But you would have been so proud to see that boy handle himself._

Blaine winces as he reads. He knows that Kurt, Sebastian, and Andrew lived during another era, in almost a completely different world. The twenties erupted in the middle of a turbulent time in American history, but that’s no excuse for the way Andrew treated his son – or the fact that he replaced him.

Blaine switches to the last journal – 1928. He does the math – if Sebastian was 10 in 1924, he’d be around 14 in 1928.

_February 22 –_

_Dear Margaret -_

_Those two boys are inseparable. They go everywhere together, and they’re so similar, they could pass for brothers. So I call the act ‘Andrew and Sons’ now. It’s worked out well for us so far. The burlesque houses hire us for their matinees. It’s good to have a family act to offset the bawdier performances. With our name on the billboards, it keeps the Fuzz off their backs and we get a higher percentage of the pot._

Blaine skims through a few entries, stopping off and on when real life intervenes. He’s interrupted first by a phone call from the storage company, rescheduling again for the following day, and then by Alex when he boldly tries to read over Blaine’s shoulder. Gary swoops in and rescues Blaine by telling the dreadful man that he and Ted are ready to pack up the puppets and they need his help with the values. Alex gives Blaine a stern glare before he hobbles off after Gary and Ted.

Blaine turns to the back of the book, trying to find an entry that he saw earlier and thought looked promising.

_October 15 –_

_Dear Margaret –_

_I wish you were here. It was the darndest thing. I went out to the shed behind the house and saw Sebastian kissing Kurt. It wasn’t brotherly nor friendly neither. It was a real, honest-to-God kiss. I’m not surprised with Kurt. I kind of suspected that his tastes tilted that way, so that doesn’t bother me. He’s a smart boy, and if that makes him happy, then so be it, but not Sebastian. I’m not raising a cake-eater. But it’s an easy fix. I’ll whore it out of him. I know you wouldn’t approve, Maggy, but there’s nothing else I can do. He turns fifteen come January. I’ll plan for then. In the meantime, I’ll have to find a way to keep them apart._

Blaine closes the journal. He’s had enough. He blinks his eyes, spots and shapes dancing in front of him as he recovers from Andrew Smythe’s wretched penmanship. He looks out the window in time to see Kurt raise his seat. From this distance, Kurt doesn’t look like a puppet. With his head titled, his eyes shut, a small smile curling his mouth, he looks like a  _human_  boy.

Blaine sees a car from another pawn shop pull up out front, and he runs to meet them with his webcam switched on. After Cooper’s demeaning phone call, Blaine isn’t too concerned with getting _all_ the shots he claims that he needs, so he plans on only taking enough to keep his brother off his back. He ushers the men into the house and directs them down to the basement, filming as they look over the large tools and equipment, deciding what they can realistically sell. It takes a while to interview these new guys since they’re so focused with the job of rifling through the power tools, plugging each one in to see which ones work or not. As soon as Blaine gets the bare minimum of shots that he needs, he races back up the stairs, taking a brief shot of Alex discussing what looks like the last of the puppets with Gary and Ted, and then heads for Kurt sitting in the van.

“Hey,” Blaine says, trying to sound nonchalant while panting uncontrollably, “I came out here to make sure you weren’t getting too hot or anything.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt the sun on my face?” Kurt sighs. “Or the wind?”

“I can only imagine.” Blaine cocks his head. “Do you feel it now?”

“Not really,” Kurt says, the smile on his lips taking a wry quality. “But I can remember them better when I’m outside than when I was locked up in the dark.”

Kurt’s comment tugs at Blaine’s heart. Tears prick his eyes at the thought of this beautiful boy locked up, shattered to pieces on that cold, damp floor, and he has to look away. He glances down and sees the notebook he gave Kurt open in his lap, the pencil stuck back in the spiral spine, two sheets of paper covered in drawings. Kurt didn’t sketch clothes like he’d said, but the living room and dining room of the house, drawn the way they might have looked when Andrew bought the place. Blaine stares in awe at the intricate details of the embossed wallpaper, the grain in the wood floor, the furniture, down to the tiny touches – portraits on the walls, statuettes on the mantel, books in the bookcase, and the tools by the fireplace, arranged so purposefully that Blaine can tell which one gets the most use by how it leans slightly while the others stand perfectly straight. Even the light streaming in through spaces in the drawn curtains gives hints to what time of day it is.

“Kurt … your drawings … are they of this house?”

“Sort of.” Kurt closes the book, keeping his eyes staunchly shut, and hands it to Blaine. “It’s a combination of the house we lived in with Sebastian’s dad and this one the few times I saw it.”

“They’re amazing,” Blaine says, thumbing through the pages. Kurt has sketched each upstairs bedroom, a bathroom, and also (Blaine discovers) a few outfits. They’re an older fashion, a match to the time period Kurt lived in.

“Thank you,” Kurt says.

“I’m close to wrapping things up in there,” Blaine mentions, setting the notebook back on Kurt’s lap. “We’ve probably got around another hour or so. Did you think about where you might want to go after this? The movies, maybe?”

Kurt raises one eyelid and peeks at Blaine.

“Do you think there’s some place we can go and see the sky?”

Blaine nods.

“I think I know the perfect place.”

***

“I’ve missed the beach so much,” Kurt says, sitting cross-legged on the retaining wall. His eyes travel up and down the shoreline, watching the white caps of the tide curl into the sand.

“Me, too,” Blaine agrees, his own gaze following Kurt’s.

Kurt turns and looks at Blaine. “But, don’t you live here?”

“No.” Blaine coughs, the confession he should have made before tickling the back of his throat. “Actually, I’m from Westerville, but I live in Lima.”

Kurt gasps, throwing both hands over his mouth. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope.” Blaine takes out his cell phone and opens his photo gallery. “Here. Take a look.” He scoots closer to Kurt so that he can better see the pictures on the screen. “These are a few of my friends from high school.”

“Where do you go?”

“McKinley.”

“Hmmm … must be new,” Kurt says, watching Blaine swipe the screen and change the photo.

“This is the Auglaize River last winter. The Glee Club went skating there over break.”

“That’s quite a handsome young man you’ve got your arms around,” Kurt remarks dryly, eyes darting away from the image of a tall blond grabbing Blaine from behind. Blaine smiles at the jealousy plain in Kurt’s voice.

“That’s my best friend Sam. He’s just a friend,” Blaine explains.

“You look _close_ ,” Kurt says, noticeably unconvinced.

“We are,” Blaine admits with a smile that slowly takes over his entire face.

“Quite.”

Blaine switches the photo, bypassing a few others with Sam in them. He wants to tease Kurt with the knowledge that he garnered from those journals, how Andrew had hoped Kurt could settle Sebastian down, how the two boys were so fond of each other, but it seems like a cruel memory to bring up. Kurt might not remember it that way and besides, thinking about that closeness starts to plant a seed of jealousy in _Blaine’s_ mind.

Especially that kiss.

Blaine shows Kurt a few, more generic, pictures – the farmer’s market where the Secret Society of Superheroes Club held a food drive last Thanksgiving, the Lima Mall, The Lima Bean coffee shop where Blaine goes pretty much every day after school. Kurt looks at these photos like he’s absorbing the images into his brain, imprinting them there.

“It looks so different now,” he says. “I don’t think I’d recognize it if I went back there.”

“Do you  _want_  to go back there?” Blaine asks, closing the photo gallery and pocketing his phone.

Kurt looks at the ocean, sadly shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing there for me now.” He wraps his arms around his torso, runs his hands up his exposed skin.

“Do you want to leave?” Blaine assumes Kurt has caught a chill, forgetting for a moment that Kurt can’t feel the cold.

“Not yet. You know, back when I …” He stops. He stares off at the distance, then he shakes his head. “Do you think it’s more fitting to say  _when I was alive_? Or should I say  _when I was human_? I mean, if I’m speaking of the past, what do I say? How do I address it?”

“That’s a good question.” Blaine wraps his arms around his bent knees and squeezes. _He’s_ definitely catching a chill, but he has no intention of mentioning it. “I would say that you’re alive. And I like to think of you as human. Maybe you don’t need to make the distinction.”

Kurt looks at his hands, turning them over front to back, examining them beneath the moonlight. As well made as they are, as much time was put into them, they don’t look like human hands. They glisten unnaturally, and his knobby knuckles reveal the fact that his digits separate, each piece held together by wire, every time he bends them.

He may be alive, if this is what alive is, but he’s far from human.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” he asks, looking at Blaine with his hands splayed in front of him. “I’m a puppet. I’m made of porcelain. I can’t have a normal life like you. I know you said you would help me, but how? What can I do?” Kurt drops his hands in his lap, helpless, and Blaine sighs. He feels just as helpless. He doesn’t know exactly how Kurt feels, but Blaine is human and still, most of the time, he has no clue what he’s doing. He can’t fix this, not completely, not right now. He doesn’t even know where to start. So he puts an arm around Kurt’s shoulders and holds him close, and together they watch the waves chase each other down the beach.

***

Blaine and Kurt return to the beach house late. They’re not covered in sand, so Blaine doesn’t rush to shower right away. He takes Kurt to his bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

“Okay,” Blaine says. “I had a thought. Hang out here for a second. I’ll be right back.”

Kurt nods, watching Blaine disappear out the door. He crosses the living room and heads for the opposite end of the house. These rooms Blaine doesn’t go to usually with the exception of the kitchen. Where his room and his brother’s room are situated side-by-side on one end of the house, the master bedroom and his parent’s library mirror them on the other.

It’s the master bedroom that Blaine ducks into.

When Blaine was younger, his mother used to sew a lot. It was a hobby that inspired him, but that she kind of grew out of the more “adult” she became. He can’t remember exactly _when_ that happened, it just kind of _did_. She kept a basket of sewing supplies in the bottom of the closet, along with a few old fashion magazines, so Blaine always had hopes of her picking it up again.

To date, she hasn’t.

On their last visit here, his father, who is tall and thin like Kurt, left clothes hanging in the closet. He had planned to pick them up on their next summer trip, but there never was another one. Blaine looks them over, frowning at how out-of-style they are, but he hopes that Kurt can do something with them. Blaine pulls the clothes off the hangers, grabs the basket of supplies and a handful of magazines, and races back through the house, ignoring Sebastian with each pass.

“Here we go.” Blaine slides into the bedroom on his sock-covered feet and drops the supplies onto his bed. Kurt sees them and goes from sullen to ecstatic.

“Oh, _Blaine_.” He picks through the clothes and the magazines, smiling so brightly that Blaine thinks Kurt might burst into song. “Did you bring all of this in here for me?”

“Yeah. Well, I thought these clothes might fit you better.” He opens the basket of sewing supplies. “And if they don’t, you could alter them, maybe? And …”

Blaine stops when Kurt kisses him on the cheek. It’s brief, innocent, but it makes Blaine’s entire body tingle.

“It’s wonderful,” Kurt whispers. “Thank you.”

“Yeah? Oh. I’m glad you like them.” He stands and backs up toward the bathroom door while Kurt continues to sift through the items on the bed. “I’m just going to take a quick rinse, and then …”

“Are you going to work on Sebastian?” Kurt’s expression seems genuinely hopeful, but Blaine still has trouble interpreting that wary tone in Kurt’s voice.

“Do you really want me to?” Blaine asks.

Kurt pauses a second.

It’s a second in which Blaine thinks Kurt might say  _no_.

“Yes,” Kurt says in the same unsure tone. “Yes, I do.”

***

Blaine’s shower is basically a dip beneath cold water to get his head straight before he jumps back out and joins Kurt for what could turn out to be a long, exhaustive night of repairing Sebastian. He has only been at it for fifteen minutes, but already he wants to throw in the towel. Sitting in a chair from the dining room that he pulled up in front of the loveseat, Blaine struggles to get Sebastian’s arm seated correctly. Whereas Kurt’s body felt magnetic, his broken limbs pulling together, longing to return to their body, Sebastian’s body feels like he’s repelling these pieces away. Maybe Sebastian doesn’t _want_ to be put back together, Blaine muses.

Or maybe he doesn’t want help from Blaine.

If Blaine had the money to send him to a professional repair person, he would. At least it would get Sebastian out of the house for a few days. The longer he sits on the loveseat staring blankly into space, the more unnerving it feels having him around.

Blaine wrestles with the piece, eventually fitting the arm in its socket. He threads the wires through, twisting them together and tying them, but they snap before he can finish. The sharp end recoils and hits Blaine on the arm, leaving a long scratch. Sebastian’s arm falls off his body and onto the loveseat.

“Dammit,” Blaine screams, dropping Sebastian to look at his smarting wound, which sends the loose arm tumbling to the floor.

Kurt puts down his sewing and runs over to examine Blaine’s injured arm.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks, looking on with concern.

“I don’t think so,” Blaine hisses, “but it hurts like hell.” Blaine reaches for a box of tissues on the table while Kurt bends over to retrieve Sebastian’s arm.

“Blaine!” Kurt exclaims, getting on his hands and knees. “You didn’t tell me you had a cat!”

“I … I don’t.” Blaine leans to the right and peeks over Kurt’s shoulder. “Oh, is it a tabby cat?” he asks, remembering the fugitive cat that scared the living daylights out of him. “Apparently he’s found a way in here.”

“No!” Kurt gasps, pulling a furry body out from underneath the loveseat. Blaine eyes the unmoving animal and groans low in his throat.

_Great. The cat broke in again just in time to die in my dining room._

But what Kurt has in his hands isn’t the dead body of a tabby cat. It’s the  _puppet_  of a tabby cat - the same tabby cat Blaine had seen in the house before. It has the same inquisitive green eyes, the same ripple pattern to the fur.

“Abigail,” Kurt murmurs, gently stroking the animal’s coat.

“Abigail?” Blaine slides off his chair to kneel on the floor beside him.

“Yes.” Kurt smiles affectionately at the realistic-looking feline puppet with the silky fur and the sparkling green eyes. “Sebastian made her. His dad was teaching us to make puppets, and Abigail was Sebastian’s.”

“But why would Abigail be here?” Blaine asks. “I didn’t bring her here.”

“Abigail was the first,” Kurt says, petting the cat as if he expected it to spring to life any second.

“The first … what?”

“The first puppet that Sebastian’s dad tried the spell on,” Kurt explains, each word forming as if the memory comes to him in the instant that he speaks.

“A spell?”

Kurt’s eyes grow wide as he starts to remember.

“Sebastian’s dad bartered for a spell from the Calhoun family. A favor for a favor. It was supposed to capture any lingering soul and put it into the vessel of your choice.”

“But, why start with the cat?” Blaine asks. It sounds far too fantastic to be real.

But then again …

 “Abigail wasn’t just any cat.” Kurt holds the animal up to his nose and stares into its eyes, trying to coax the creature to come alive for them. “She was _Sebastian’s_ cat. His best friend back before I joined their group. She was a stray. Andrew didn’t really let Sebastian keep her. She followed them around because Sebastian fed her, and they couldn’t get rid of her. After she died, Sebastian said he always kind of felt her around. He swore he would see her dart out from behind corners, or feel her curl up next to him while he slept. She was always hiding under things and scurrying beneath toys and such, looking for mice …”

Blaine’s mind conjures up the sounds of scurrying he heard in the Victorian house when he first entered it, wondering if they might have been made by Abigail hunting around the piles of trash.

“He got the spell to bring us back, but he tried it out on Abigail first.”

“So, he was able to bring her back because she stayed behind? So that means that  _you_  stayed behind?”

Kurt puts Abigail down beside Sebastian on the loveseat, moving the cat close to his friend’s body so that they can finally be together again.

“I couldn’t leave him,” Kurt says, giving the cat puppet one last pat on the head. “He was like a father to me. And he felt so guilty … I had to make sure that he was going to be okay.”

“And Sebastian?” Blaine bites his tongue. The answer is obvious, but Blaine doesn’t want to let on that he harbors secret knowledge of the motives of Andrew – or Sebastian - Smythe. After what Blaine read in those journals, he knows that Sebastian didn’t stick around for his father. No way. There’s only one person he would have stayed around for.

“He stayed around for me.” When Kurt turns and looks at Blaine, it’s with the ghost of tears in his eyes – tears that don’t exist but are as real as any others, brought on by emotion that Kurt can feel but can’t fully express. “That’s why you have to promise me you’ll put him back together.” Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s torso. “You have to fix him. Please? For me?”

“I will,” Blaine says, holding Kurt just as tightly in his arms. “I promised I will, and I will.” With his cheek resting in Kurt’s hair, he looks Sebastian over. He should fix Sebastian – at least give the poor guy another arm or a leg. He did promise Kurt. Sebastian’s puppet is made of wood and the pieces are not as extensively damaged as Kurt’s were, but fixing Sebastian feels like the last thing he should do.

He has a feeling that if Sebastian wakes up, he has the power to take Kurt away from him for good.

***

There must be rats somewhere beneath the floor. Or possums. Or maybe Abigail is up and roaming about the house, chasing dust bunnies or pouncing on her shadow. Either way, in his sleep, Blaine can hear the scrape, scrape, scrape of something moving across the wood floor.

Or maybe it’s a gnawing. He can’t tell in his half-asleep state.

His mind swims with dreams of Kurt: Kurt sitting on the sand at the beach, staring off into the water; Kurt dancing beneath the moonlight, arms outstretched to the sky; Kurt lying beside him where they fell asleep together on the living room floor, their fingers intertwined.

Kurt’s blue eyes, his smooth skin, his pink lips.

Blaine feels a tickle on his cheek, bothering him awake. He opens his eyes with a smile, expecting to see a tuft of orange fur, or maybe blue eyes staring at him from an already awake Kurt.

He _hopes_ it’s eyes – stunning blue glass eyes.

Blaine’s eyes open slowly, holding on to as much dream as he can, even though he’s eager to spend another day with Kurt.

He focuses through slits. It’s eyes that he sees alright, but this time they’re not blue.

They’re _green_.

And they don’t belong to Abigail.

Blaine’s eyes snap open, realization propelling him awake.

Sebastian is lying out on the floor in front of him, nose pressed against his, wooden mouth split into a startling grin.

“Well hey there, tiger,” Sebastian says. “Don’t I get a kiss hello?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of character death that happened in the past.

“Oh, Sebastian,” Kurt says, peeking up from behind Blaine’s body, “do you have to be so dramatic? You could have just said hello, you know. Like normal people.”

“Hello, beautiful,” Sebastian says with a musical lilt to his voice, “good to see you in one piece again.” Then he shifts his eyes to look at Blaine and his smile turns almost threatening. “Hello, _Blaine_ ,” he says.

“Hello, _Sebastian_ ,” Blaine responds in a similarly menacing tone, “nice of you to finally join the land of the living.” Blaine reaches back a hand to touch Kurt, wrapping his fingers around Kurt’s wrist protectively. Sebastian watches Blaine as he reaches for Kurt, his green eyes shadowed by his open disregard for the human in front of him.

“Oh, I’ve always been here,” Sebastian explains, winking at Blaine, the movement accompanied by an off-putting clacking sound as wood touches wood. “Hiding out, watching you two…” His eyes shift to Kurt again. Blaine turns his head to see Kurt’s eyes drop down and away.

“So, why didn’t you just talk to us then?” Blaine asks, not thrilled at this effect Sebastian seems to have on Kurt – how Kurt suddenly looks like he wants to hide.

“I was waiting for the right time,” Sebastian says, amused at the mounting tension that has started to build in the room at his presence. “I’m an actor at heart. I wanted to make an entrance.”

Blaine doesn’t look at Kurt, but sits up higher to shield him from view. Sebastian rolls his head on his neck 180 degrees to look up at him, the joint creaking as the wood and wires slide together. Blaine fights to hide his grimace of disgust at the appearance of Sebastian’s contorted neck. Sebastian stares at Blaine, his mocking smile turning into a sneer.

“Well, don’t I get an emotional welcome back?” he asks, mostly jeering at Blaine but with a thread of genuine hurt meant for Kurt to hear. “I heard you sing and talk incessantly to our little Kurt back there. What do I get?” Sebastian’s teasing tone returns. “Aren’t you happy to see me, Blaine? Did you dream about me? I’ve been traumatized, too, you know.”

Blaine’s eyes narrow at the wooden puppet whose smile, Blaine suspects, was painted purposefully to always look like a smirk – untrustworthy and insincere. Blaine doesn’t want that to color his perspective. Sebastian _has_ been traumatized, probably more so than Kurt, but it’s hard to sympathize with someone who openly seems to despise you for no reason. Regardless of that fact, Blaine expected something…different.

But Kurt’s reaction is one that Blaine simply does not understand. He wanted Sebastian put back together, but now he doesn’t want anything to do with him. It could have been only out of a sense of obligation that Kurt wanted Sebastian fixed, but Blaine always felt there was something else unspoken.

If Kurt doesn’t regret this decision, Blaine sure as heck is starting to.

Sebastian’s head turns back around to normal and he frowns.

“Well, could I at least get my other arm and my legs?” he asks, raising the one arm Blaine had managed to attach before he fell asleep and waving his hand in front of Blaine’s face. “It would be nice to be able to walk upright. Or do you only grant that privilege to pretty puppets you want to fuck?”

“Sebastian!” Kurt’s voice pipes up as he crawls forward from behind Blaine’s body. “Watch your tongue!”

Sebastian smiles when he sees Kurt – not the mocking sneer that he gives Blaine, but a true smile. It almost makes Sebastian look human, the way Kurt’s smile makes _him_ look human.

“There’s my Kurt,” Sebastian says. “I wondered where you went.”

“I’m not your Kurt,” Kurt says quietly but firmly.

Blaine can’t help it when he yawns, but he’s exhausted. He looks down at his cell phone on the floor and sighs, rubbing his eyes to make the numbers on the screen come into focus.

It’s barely two in the morning. They’d only been asleep for about four hours.

God, it felt so much later.

“Okay,” Blaine says, putting his hands up, “I think that we got off to a bad start here.” He looks at Sebastian, fixing the puppet with a smile he hopes conveys something close to an apology, even though he doesn’t feel it. “Why don’t I go ahead and give you your arms and legs, and then I can set us up in our own rooms. I don’t know about you guys, but I seriously need to sleep in a bed. My joints are killing me.”

Both puppets shoot him incredulous looks and he chuckles.

“Right,” Blaine says. “Sorry.”

Blaine looks at Kurt, who looks back at him with worried eyes. Blaine smiles, cupping Kurt’s cheek with his hand. He hears the sound of wood grinding against wood. He looks down to see Sebastian rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

“This is really sweet and all,” he says, drumming his fingertips against the floor, “but I’d really like my legs back now.”

Blaine drops his hand from Kurt’s cheek, his fingertips tracing light lines down porcelain skin as Kurt cranes his neck to follow them. Blaine stands, stretching stiff muscles until he’s upright. Then he bends over to pick up Sebastian. He hoists the one-armed puppet into his arm and cradles him carefully.

Sebastian looks up at him and bats his eyelids.

“Now, isn’t this cozy?” Sebastian coos.

Blaine walks Sebastian over to the loveseat and promptly drops him onto the cushions.

“Hey!” the puppet screams, struggling with one arm to sit upright. “I may not be made of porcelain, but I’m still breakable, you know.”

“Sorry,” Blaine says, not caring about his clipped tone since Kurt had retreated to the kitchen and was well out of earshot, “I slipped.”

Sebastian watches Blaine gather his other arm and the wire, and start fitting it onto his body.

“You know,” Blaine grunts, fighting more than before to get the arm in place, “this is _your_ arm. You could help me out a little.”

“Now, why would I do that,” Sebastian says in a venomous tone, “when you’re trying so hard to steal the only thing in the world I’ve ever wanted?”

Blaine’s eyes snap up to take in Sebastian’s dark expression.

“Wha---“ he utters just as Kurt walks in, a glass of Coke in his hand. He walks up to the dining room table, his smile starting long before then. Blaine sees Sebastian’s smile turn again to one of longing, dreamlike, until Kurt walks straight up to Blaine with scarcely a glance at the wooden puppet.

“Here,” Kurt says, handing the glass to Blaine. “I thought this might help keep you awake.”

“Thanks,” Blaine says, taking the glass and sipping the drink before setting it down on the table behind him, not missing the way Kurt licks his lips lightly when he put the cup to his mouth. Kurt hops a little and then turns away to the sofa to take up his sewing again, looking up at Blaine one more time, his smile widening when he sees Blaine staring back at him. Blaine’s eyes trail back to Sebastian, scowling between them, but he holds his tongue until Blaine is bent back over his shoulder.

“You know,” Sebastian whispers, “I don’t know what you think is going on between you and Kurt, but it’s all in your head.”

Blaine scoffs, keeping his own fears about the state of their _relationship_ locked safely away so that Sebastian can’t even guess what they are.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Blaine says, “but it’s none of your business.”

“Smooth, tiger,” Sebastian says. “But in all seriousness, you and Kurt are never going to happen.”

“And why do you think that?” Blaine asks, keeping his voice low and even, peeking behind him to make sure Kurt hasn’t caught on to their discussion.

“Because it’s absurd,” Sebastian laughs. Blaine pulls the wires in his shoulder joint tight and moves on to his left leg. Sebastian keeps his eyes glued to Blaine’s face, watching for a reaction. “You and him. You’re human, he’s a puppet. What kind of… _relationship_ can you two have?”

Blaine looks up at Sebastian’s pause and sees him wiggle his eyebrows.

Blaine shakes his head. He lays the puppet back on the loveseat, cringing internally at how intimate it feels.

“You know, worthwhile relationships aren’t all about sex,” Blaine argues.

“Yeah, well, they are a _little_ ,” Sebastian comments.

“And what would the two of you do together?” Blaine asks, pulling the wires tighter than necessary, wishing on some level that it would hurt. “You don’t have anything to work with.” Blaine knocks on Sebastian’s wooden crotch for good measure, smirking when Sebastian jolts up, propping himself up on his elbows, looking like he might try to take a swing at him.

“Is everything alright over there, guys?” Kurt asks from his seat on the sofa. Blaine and Sebastian turn to look at him, his needle poised mid-stitch, his glass eyes switching back and forth between them.

“We’re all good here,” Blaine reassures him. “What do you say, Sebastian? Are we all good here?”

Blaine’s smile at Sebastian borders on devious, and the wooden puppet looks taken back.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says. “We’re fine, Kurt. Just, getting my legs fixed. Everything’s kosher.”

“Good,” Kurt says, returning to his sewing, humming to himself.

Blaine and Sebastian’s eyes meet again, their plastered smiles dropping immediately.

Blaine tugs the wires in Sebastian’s left leg and ties them off.

“Why don’t the two of us play nice?” Blaine suggests. “For Kurt’s sake.”

Sebastian’s wooden face becomes a slideshow of mixed emotions, but he settles on the plastic façade that passes for polite. It doesn’t fool Blaine in the slightest.

“Sure, tiger,” Sebastian says. “Whatever you want. I’ll play nice.”

Blaine nods, turning back to the table for Sebastian’s right leg, stopping to take a long drink from his cup of soda. Sebastian watches, narrowing his eyelids, shooting scores of daggers Blaine’s way.

“I’ll play nice,” Sebastian mutters, “for now.”

Blaine fixes Sebastian’s leg in silence with the painted wood eyes of the puppet bouncing between glaring at him and watching Kurt sew. At one point, Abigail leaps onto the loveseat, overjoyed at seeing her owner, and Sebastian actually laughs when he sees her.

“Abby,” he says, stroking her back with great care. She climbs up onto his chest and rubs her face against her cheek. “You’re such a clever girl,” he mutters, “such a smart little girl,” and the cat purrs so loudly that Blaine can feel it vibrate Sebastian’s wooden body.

“That should do it,” Blaine says around his third yawn, tying off the wires that secure Sebastian’s right leg to his hip joint. “Now just a dab of this pottery glue…”

“Pottery glue?” Sebastian laughs. Abigail jumps off Sebastian’s chest and onto the loveseat as he pulls himself up to a sitting position. “Do I look like pottery to you?”

“No,” Blaine says, gritting his teeth. “But it worked miracles on Kurt’s cracks and chips. Maybe it’ll do the same for you.” Blaine uncaps the tube and watches Sebastian roll his eyes. Blaine bites his tongue hard to keep from saying something in front of Kurt he might regret. “Unless you want to stay splintered and brittle,” he says. “It’s your choice.”

Blaine puts the cap back on the tube, but a hard hand on his arm stops him. Sebastian holds his arms out straight, waiting. Blaine relents and applies the glue – not quite as precisely as he had with Kurt, but it is going on four in the morning and Blaine has had about as much of Sebastian’s snark as he can handle for one day.

And the sun has yet to rise.

“Alright.” Blaine caps the tube and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s it. I’m done. I’ve got to go to bed.”

Kurt giggles from his seat on the couch, slipping his needle into the fabric of the pants he’s been hemming and setting them down on the cushion beside him. He stands and walks up to the loveseat beside the dining room table.

“He looks pretty good,” Kurt says, looking Sebastian over, taking his wrists and lifting up his arms to examine his shoulder joints. Blaine watches Sebastian’s green eyes follow Kurt’s every move with a peculiar sort of admiration. Kurt turns his attention to Blaine, and that admiration snuffs out. “You do incredible work.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Blaine says, fighting his unease at the new sardonic interloper.

“You’re damn right it’s nothing,” Sebastian grouses, pulling his wrists from Kurt’s grasp and folding his arms across his chest. “If that’s all it took, I could have gotten a first grader to do it for me.”

Blaine hears Kurt sigh beside him. Sebastian turns his head toward the sound but Kurt is staring at his feet. Sebastian was an overbearing enough presence when he was motionless and silent, but now it’s worse. He’s vile and insulting, with a bizarre affection hiding beneath his cynical exterior that he’s fighting hard not to show. But there’s also a connection between him and Kurt. Blaine can feel it like a current spiraling around them. They have a history, a past.

Blaine wanted to be Kurt’s future.

“Can’t you just say thank you?” Kurt asks, pleading quietly, embarrassed by Sebastian’s reaction.

“That’s not necessary,” Blaine says quickly.

“No,” Sebastian says, not willing to let Blaine sweep in and get the upper hand by being humble. “Thank you, Blaine, for putting me back together. I’m in your debt.”

It takes a lot for Blaine to keep from rolling his eyes.

“I’ll remember that,” he says as pointedly as he can.

Sebastian does not look pleased.

“Well, let’s head off to bed,” Blaine suggests, gesturing with his head in the direction of his and his brother’s bedroom. Kurt grabs his pants off the couch and both he and Blaine give Sebastian a wide berth as he takes a few tentative steps forward, holding out his arms for balance. Blaine stands nearby, ready to help in case he falls, but Sebastian shoots him a look and Blaine throws up his hands.

“Come on,” Blaine says to Kurt, putting a hand to the small of Kurt’s back and leading him on ahead of Sebastian, willing to let Sebastian fall and spend the night sprawled out on the living room floor if he’s going to act like a brat.

Being made of wood and not porcelain, Sebastian gets his footing quicker than Kurt had, and follows the couple to a set of doors standing side-by-side on the far end of the house.

“This,” Blaine says, opening the door to his brother’s room a crack, “is my brother Cooper’s room. He has a king-sized bed.”

Kurt’s eyes brighten, his cheeks reddening at the thought of occupying the room right next to Blaine’s. Blaine doesn’t seem to notice, but Sebastian does.

“Thanks, Blaine,” Sebastian says, breaking the silence. He smirks at the way Kurt’s eyes drop. “It’ll be nice being so close to your room, Blaine. You know, just in case I get nightmares in the middle of the night.” Sebastian sniffs dramatically, putting a hand to his chest. “If you don’t mind, that is, Kurt.”

“No,” Kurt says, looking back up at him and smiling a little forced. “Of course, Sebastian. If that’s what you want. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Blaine watches the exchange with interest. Blaine doesn’t like to judge books by their covers, so to speak, but Blaine has had enough experience with bullies to figure Sebastian out. He can blame that on Andrew all he wants, but the truth is that Sebastian doesn’t need to _be_ a bully because he _was_ bullied. But Kurt is letting himself be bullied, and Blaine isn’t sure exactly why. Kurt thinks he owes Sebastian, that’s pretty clear, but there has to be something more to this than that. There has to be.

“That’s right,” Blaine says, putting an arm around Kurt’s waist and pulling him towards his room. “My brother’s got some old clothes hanging in the closet I think might fit you, but other than that, if you need anything at all, just go ahead and knock. We’ll help you out.”

“We?” Kurt asks, staring dumbfounded into Blaine’s hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “I’ve got a bunk bed in my room. I thought you could have the top bunk.”

Kurt still stares at Blaine silently, his eyes brightening.

“I’m kind of used to having you around,” Blaine says with a shy smile. “I don’t think I could sleep without you. Would you like to join me?”

Kurt’s mouth drops open, but Sebastian’s mouth snaps shut.

“Yes,” Kurt says. “Yes, I think I would like that.”

“Great,” Blaine says. He turns the knob to his door and lets the door swing open. He bows at the waist, gesturing inside the room, and Kurt walks in with a laugh on his lips, hugging his sewing tight. Blaine walks in after him and shuts the door, ignoring the puppet in the hallway, seething at his back.

* * *

 

Blaine and Kurt approach the bed awkwardly. Blaine stops at the frame, but Kurt continues on to the other side, depositing his sewing on Blaine’s desk as he walks around the foot of the bed and stops opposite him.

“So, you can take the top bunk,” Blaine offers, reaching up and patting the mattress, focusing on the plain white sheet that covers the bed as he speaks, “or…”

“Or…” Kurt asks, craning his neck to get a better look at Blaine’s face.

“Or, you could sleep on the bottom bunk…with me?” Blaine asks, biting his lip. His eyes sweep the room and land on Kurt’s face. “I just thought…” Blaine continues nervously, “like last night…”

“I think that would be nice,” Kurt says, climbing on the bed and slipping beneath the covers.

“Good,” Blaine says, nodding, turning off his lamp and slipping beneath the blankets on his side. Blaine stares up at the ceiling, his feet fidgeting beneath the sheets, suppressing the urge to giggle like a giddy doofus every time he feels Kurt move, knowing that he’s lying beside him.

But as happy as he is – and at this moment, he’s happier than he’s been in a long time – the thought of Kurt kowtowing to Sebastian kills him. He has to know.

“Kurt,” he says, his fingers tracing patterns into the sheet.

“Yes, Blaine,” Kurt says in that reverent whisper reserved for church and sleep.

“Can you explain to me this thing between you and Sebastian?” Blaine asks too quickly, afraid that if he doesn’t get the words out all in one breath he won’t ask at all.

Kurt reaches across the bed beneath the blanket and finds Blaine’s hand. He slips his hand into Blaine’s.

“Can I…can I explain it to you another time?” Kurt asks timidly. Blaine turns his head to look at Kurt, his glass eyes staring up at the ceiling. He looks so melancholy all of a sudden that Blaine doesn’t have the heart to press him to talk.

“Of course,” Blaine says. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Their fingers lace together, and at the touch of Kurt’s palm against his, Blaine falls asleep.

* * *

 

It feels like being dropped off a rollercoaster onto the ground, or skydiving without a parachute when Blaine finds himself locked into a memory or a dream that’s not his own. That’s where he is now, sprawled on his back in the soft earth, staring up at a sky full of silver points of light. He’s not sure exactly where he is or why he’s there, but he’s beside a shed behind a house – a Victorian house, like the one he’s renovating but without the cartoonish paint job. The lights are on upstairs and he hears the low hum of voices, like people having an argument. He hears a clash of wood against wood, and then a bottle shatter. He bolts to his feet, staring up at the lit window shrouded by sheer curtains, diffusing the golden light from within. Two silhouettes come into view – two men, one steadfastly trying to hold the other upright while the other sways back and forth, nearly falling straight to the floor. Cast only in dark shadows against the curtains, they look so familiar that Blaine knows whatever purpose he has here, that’s where he needs to be.

It’s almost instantaneous how he ends up in the room. He doesn’t really practice the skill, it just seems to be a part of who he is. He knows he needs to be there, he wants to be there, and he’s there.

He’s in a bedroom and for a moment he’s confused. It looks exactly like Kurt’s bedroom in the Victorian house he’s renovating, but he knows he’s not there. All the same, there are similar theater posters on the walls, a Singer sewing machine in the corner, a dress form beside that and on it a half-finished suit…a suit that resembles the one Blaine had thrown in the trash, the one that Kurt didn’t want to wear. Andrew had made Kurt’s room in that San Diego house a replica of the room he lived in back in the 20s, down to the mahogany furniture.

Andrew had remembered all these details and recreated them for when he brought Kurt back.

Blaine looks up when he hears the springs on the mattress whine and sees Sebastian lying back on the bed with Kurt sprawled over him. He’s holding onto Kurt’s upper arms, wrinkling the shirt that Kurt’s wearing, as Kurt struggles to be free of him. Blaine wants to rush forward, wants to pull Kurt off of him, but he stops. He can’t do a thing. This isn’t his memory, and whatever this is, it’s already happened. Blaine watches, but Kurt doesn’t seemed too concerned with the antics of his obviously drunken friend, extricating himself easily from Sebastian’s grasp.

“You know, you have to stop doing this to yourself,” Kurt says. “You’re going to drink yourself to death one of these days.”

“Wh-what the fuck do I care?” Sebastian slurs. “It’d be better than playing second fiddle to a God fucking puppet for the rest of my…for the rest of my life!”

Blaine watches Kurt try to sit Sebastian up, but the moment Kurt lets go of him, he falls back on the bed. Kurt clicks his tongue in disgust and shakes his head. He walks over to his dresser, close to where Blaine is standing. Kurt is dressed in a pair of tailored black slacks with a white dress shirt tucked in, and a black pin-striped vest over that. He looks beautiful – his skin soft, his pink lips so tempting, his blue eyes icy and unamused. There’s a basin on the dresser and he pours some water into it from a pitcher right beside. He places a cloth gently in the basin, giving it a moment to sop up the water. Then he wrings it out and carries it back to the bed, placing it on Sebastian’s forehead.

“Nothing says you’re going to be playing second fiddle to Sammy,” Kurt reassures him, patting the cloth down. “You’re a smart boy, Sebastian. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“Yup,” Sebastian says, groaning at the sound of his own voice in his ears. “Do you know I applied for early admission to five different colleges, and I haven’t heard back from a single one? Not even a _no, thank you, we hate you, fuck off_?” He shakes his head, wincing at the mistake of moving. “Oh, I’m a smart boy, alright. A smart boy who’s going to be playing with puppets for the rest of my life.” He moans in the back of his throat. “It doesn’t matter. He hates me anyway.”

“He doesn’t _hate_ you,” Kurt says. “I think he just wants you to take the act more seriously.”

“But I can’t take it seriously, Kurt,” Sebastian gripes. “It’s his life, not mine.”

“You know, Sebastian…” Kurt lays out beside him on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, “I know you don’t think you have a say in your own life, but you do. You really do.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Sebastian says, turning on his side and draping an arm across Kurt’s waist, “you’re not saddled by the ghost of Vaudeville past hovering over your head.”

“Meaning?” Kurt asks, running his hand over the arm across is waist with long, soothing strokes.

“Meaning, my father isn’t your father. You can leave anytime you want. You can go wherever you want. You’re not tied down to this horse and pony show.”

Kurt sighs.

“I don’t intend to stay here forever,” Kurt says. “In a few more years, I’ll have enough money saved that I…”

Kurt lets the sentence drop. Sebastian looks up at him with unfocused eyes that can’t seem to decide which image of Kurt they should be looking at.

“Saved up for what?” Sebastian asks.

“Well,” Kurt starts after a hard swallow, “to move to New York. To try and make it big on the stage.”

Sebastian gasps – a sound Kurt misinterprets for mocking – and Kurt snaps his head to look at him.

“I can do it, you know,” Kurt says defensively. “There are new musicals opening all the time. My friend from Lima – Rachel – she moved there with her intended last year and she’s been in the chorus of three musicals already. Or I could go to Hollywood. Maybe try to be in a motion picture.”

“Traitor,” Sebastian mutters, but not vindictively.

“Yeah,” Kurt says with a smile, “you’re probably right. But my point is, we don’t have to do this forever.”

“Really?” Sebastian asks, inching his face closer to Kurt’s, his eyes flicking over Kurt’s lips in that same way Blaine had done so many times before. “And what do you think I should do?”

“Start over,” Kurt suggests with a warm smile. “Make a life that’s all your own. One that you can be proud of.”

“A-ha,” Sebastian scoffs, “and how do you recommend I do that?”

“Well, you can start by telling your dad how you feel,” Kurt says, moving an inch back when he notices how close Sebastian has come to his face. Sebastian slumps back when he sees Kurt moving away. His expression changes to that mask of condescension that he wears so easily.

“You’re such a simpleton, Hummel,” Sebastian spits into Kurt’s face. “Such a Goddamned simpleton.” He swings his feet off the edge of the bed, pushing himself upright, letting the wet cloth on his forehead fall to the floor. He swings back and forth unsteadily, grabbing onto the bedpost for balance. “Such a simpleton,” he repeats, “and that’s why you’re never going to be famous.”

Sebastian’s drunken muttering is stopped by a crash of broken bottles and mumbled cursing from downstairs.

Kurt stands up and stares Sebastian square in the face.

“Maybe I am a simpleton,” Kurt says, “but I’m a simpleton who’s going to get out of here and never look back. Unless you want to die here, then here’s your chance.”

Sebastian stares down at Kurt, thinking of some vicious remark, some comment so crippling that it will finally cut Kurt down for good, but then he turns his head to look out the window with a forlorn expression on his face.

“I’ll pass.”

Kurt glares at Sebastian, as if personally and deeply disappointed by his refusal.

“Coward,” he says, blowing by him with a force that shoves Sebastian back down onto the bed. Kurt breezes straight through Blaine’s body and heads down the stairs. Blaine waits for a moment before he follows, watching as Sebastian curls in on himself on top of Kurt’s bed. He grabs one of Kurt’s pillows and pulls it against his chest, burying his head into it and breathing in deep. Then, in the new silence, Sebastian begins to cry.

Blaine backs out of the room, his eyes holding on to the image of a broken Sebastian. He stares at what he can see of the man’s face as he sobs into the pillow, and it spears Blaine straight to his soul.

He knows how Sebastian feels.

The room, with its lantern still lit, begins to darken in his mind, and he knows he’s no longer supposed to be here. He turns and makes his way down the stairs, to the scene already in progress, of Kurt helping another drunk man off the floor, rolling his eyes as if to say, “Great. Another idiot.”

“It’s over,” the older man slurs, sounding remarkably like his son upstairs. “Done. All done. The last nail has been hammered into the coffin. Our lives are over.”

Kurt rolls his eyes again as he sets the man on his feet.

“What is it?” Kurt asks, taking a step back. “What’s done?” Andrew tries to walk. He barely takes a step before he falls forward. Kurt rushes to intercept the man before he skids and lands on his face.

“Vaudeville,” Andrew says. “Vaudeville’s dead.”

“What!?” Kurt exclaims. “It can’t be!”

“Well, it is, son,” Andrew says, leaning on Kurt as he makes his way to his chair. “It’s all these new-fangled talkies. They did it. They killed us, boy.”

Blaine sees a cloud of guilt cross Kurt’s face over his thoughts of wanting to break into the movies, but it passes and Kurt kneels at Andrew’s feet.

“What are you going to do now?” Kurt asks. If Andrew notices that Kurt says _you_ instead of _we_ , he doesn’t show it.

“I don’t know, my boy,” Andrew says, putting a hand on Kurt’s and patting it gently. “I just don’t know.”

Kurt bites his lip and looks down at the floor, around the small room and into the fireplace, watching the flames he lit and tended dance over the logs they’re consuming.

“You know,” he starts out, and Blaine gets a distinct feeling of déjà vu. This is just how the conversation upstairs with Sebastian started out, and Blaine is beginning to see the picture of a young boy who tried so hard to keep this disjointed family together, “I hear that some of those motion picture studios are filming Vaudeville acts…” Kurt stops, watching, gauging Andrew’s reaction to his suggestion. The man doesn’t seem to be listening, and for a second, Blaine thinks he might have fallen asleep. But then his head pops up and he stares down at Kurt with an incredulous, angry look on his face.

“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, that’s blasphemy!” he yells, sweeping an arm and knocking over an end table, sending books and papers sliding all over the floor. “How can we do that when they’ve destroyed our livelihood?”

Blaine catches sight of one black book – a journal. The book spins as it travels underneath the chair, and Blaine sees the first three numbers: _193_ -.

“Well, if this is the way things are headed,” Kurt says carefully, “maybe we should go with the flow.”

Andrew shakes his head, covering his eyes with his hand.

“Mr. Smythe, these movies that they’re making…they’re going to be around for years,” Kurt explains. “You will be remembered long after we’re all gone. People will be watching your act for generations to come.”

Andrew sighs, but he doesn’t speak, and even with his eyes shut Blaine can see them move as he considers Kurt’s words.

“No, no. It wouldn’t work.” Andrew raises watery green eyes to stare into Kurt’s. “I can’t do anything else. I’ve lived on greasepaint and sawdust my entire life. It’s all I know. I’m a creature of habit, Kurt, and this dog’s too old to learn any new tricks.”

Kurt nods, clenching his jaw tight.

When he opens his mouth to speak again, Blaine is sure it’s to tell Andrew that he’s leaving.

“Why don’t I go make us some tea?” Kurt slips his hand from beneath Andrew’s and stands.

“Alright,” Andrew answers softly. He waits until Kurt is in the kitchen before he looks up and follows him with his eyes.

Blaine wants to join Kurt in the kitchen, but he has a strong feeling that there’s something here that he needs to see. Andrew gets up from his chair and starts cleaning up the overturned table. There are papers all over the floor – pictures and letters. Blaine comes up behind the man and watches him sort through them. Andrew picks through the letters first and Blaine reads the first few lines of each one –foreclosure notices from the bank, repo letters for everything from his car to their furniture, a hock slip for his wedding ring. Andrew was so far in debt there seemed to be no way for him to dig himself out.

After those, there were letters written to Andrew from Kurt’s dad asking, “How has my son been?...When will I hear from you?...Here is the money you requested...Please let me know when my son gets over his illness…I’m sorry the doctor’s bills are so high but I’ll send you anything I can.”

Blaine feels his skin crawl as he reads Kurt’s father’s pleas over and over.

Andrew Smythe, the detestable asshole he was, had been scamming Kurt’s dad for money.

Blaine’s hands clench at his sides, his eyes burning with hate. Just when Blaine’s loathing of Andrew couldn’t get any stronger, couldn’t run any deeper, the final letter shatters every ideal Kurt has built up in him that Andrew might be any shred of a decent human being.

It’s a letter from Stanford University.

_Dear Andrew Smythe:_

_Congratulations! We would like to extend an offer of early admission to your son, Sebastian Smythe, to our university for the upcoming spring semester…_

Andrew gathers all the letters together and wrings them in his hands, throttling them and then tossing them into the fireplace.

“You bastard!” Blaine breathes, his hands shaking he looks down at the hunched over man. “You evil…”

The sound of a kettle whistling splits the air. Andrew pops his head up and looks toward the kitchen to see if Kurt is coming with his tea. When Kurt doesn’t appear, Andrew picks up a poker and stabs at the mash of burnt ashes, pushing them deeper into the flames, upsetting the logs so that the top one teeters in its attempt to hide the evidence. Both Andrew and Blaine turn their heads at the sound of footsteps, but they bypass the living room and head for the stairs, fading up the staircase.

Blaine figures Kurt probably brought a cup of tea up to Sebastian first to make sure he was okay.

Andrew has the same idea. He gathers up the photographs next. He looks through them quickly, photo after photo of Sebastian and Kurt from years past – playing ball in the yard, performing on stage, swimming in a pond, walking down the street hand-in-hand. He reaches beneath the chair and grabs his journal. He pulls it out and opens the book to the middle, sticking the photos in the spine and placing the book back on the table by the fire.

“ _My_ family,” he says, sitting back in his chair and sighing. “No one is going to split up my family. Not even you, Sebastian. You’re not leaving and taking my Kurt with you. I won’t let you.”

Blaine hears a soft thud from above them. Andrew’s eyes shut, entirely unconcerned about the goings on above his head.

Blaine can’t look at him. He can’t look at the man who is so intent on living his own dreams that he’s willing to destroy the dreams of his son and the boy he’s sworn to take care of, and can still sleep so soundly. Blaine heads back up the staircase to Kurt’s room. He hears another thud and peeks his head in to see Kurt pulling off Sebastian’s socks after having taken off his shoes. After the socks, he moves up to Sebastian’s neck, loosening his tie.

Sebastian’s eyes open, his hands lifting to hold onto Kurt’s wrists. Kurt ignores him and continues with the necktie.

“Run away with me,” Sebastian whispers. “We’ll go to Hollywood, or New York, or anywhere you want. Let’s just…let’s just be together…”

With eyes fixed on Kurt’s face, he rolls his head slightly and places a kiss on Kurt’s hand. Kurt sighs, stopping with the ends of Sebastian’s tie in his hands.

“I love you, Sebastian,” Kurt says. “I do…but not the way you love me. I’m sorry.”

Sebastian’s eyelids close and his head falls to the side, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

“Oh, Seb,” Kurt whispers, lying down beside the boy on the bed, the tea forgotten. He presses his forehead to Sebastian’s and closes his eyes. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

Blaine watches a tear roll down Kurt’s cheek, a match to Sebastian’s, which has already dried into his skin.

Blaine begins to see. This is where Kurt’s guilt comes from. This is why he’s so obligated to Sebastian.

Sebastian loved Kurt. Kurt didn’t love him back.

Blaine doesn’t know how long he spends staring at the two before he smells the smoke rising up the staircase. He runs to the doorway and sees it billow, rising higher and higher. He hears a sniffle as the smell registers for Kurt, too, and he sits up in bed. He climbs over the edge and heads for the doorway with Blaine close behind.

“Mr. Smythe?” Kurt calls down, coughing as the smoke finally hits him. “Mr.…Mr. Smythe?” Kurt covers his nose and mouth with his arm and makes his way down the stairs.

The living room is almost entirely engulfed in flames.

“Mr. Smythe!” Kurt yells, eying the man passed out in his chair. A single lit log sits on the floor not too far from his feet, the fire spreading quickly as it eats its way over the hardwood floor.

“Sebastian!” Kurt yells out as he rushes into the living room, hopping around patches of fire. “Sebastian, wake up!”

Kurt gathers Andrew up under his arm and lifts him to his feet, dragging him through the living room and out the front door as if the old man weighs nothing.

Blaine doesn’t consciously follow them but in the blink of an eye he’s outside. Kurt lays Andrew down on the ground and the old man immediately coughs up a mouthful of spit and soot, drawing in strained, shuddering breaths.

Kurt looks around them in the dark, desperate for any sign of Sebastian.

“Mr. Smythe,” Kurt says, shaking the older man lightly. “Mr. Smythe, I don’t see Sebastian.” Kurt looks back at the house as the old Victorian surrenders to the fire. “You stay here. I’m going to go get him.”

Kurt stands but Andrew reaches out a hand and grabs him. Kurt looks into the man’s soot-stained face as he shakes his head.

“Leave…leave him,” he says, his raspy voice competing with the fire to be heard.

“What?” Kurt’s eyes go wide. “No! We can’t leave him! He’s your son!”

Kurt makes to leave, but Andrew holds on tighter.

“No,” Andrew says. “You’re my son now Kurt. You always have been.”

Kurt looks at Andrew, stunned by the man’s insanity.

“No, I’m not,” Kurt says sternly.

“You’ve been a far better son than that wretch,” Andrew insists. “Let him go, Kurt. Let him go the way his mother did, and then maybe they can be together…and Sebastian will be happy.”

Kurt tears his arm from Andrew’s grasp and runs back into the house with the old man’s cries of, “Leave him, Kurt!” echoing behind him.

Blaine races after him to follow him into the house. He can feel the heat from the fire assault his skin – the intense, awesome heat. The flames blind him. Everything in the house is waves of black without definition or color. He hears a scream – Kurt’s voice calling out Sebastian’s name through coughs and cries and pleads of _Please, get up! I can’t carry you!_

“I’m coming!” Blaine cries out into the fire even as the flames keep him backed into the doorway. “Kurt! I’m coming! Just…hold on!”

He hears a crack, like the break in a massive tree during a harsh storm. It’s loud enough to make his ears ring. The ceiling gives way, and what was once the second floor falls with a tremendous crash down to the first, beams and supports blockading the doorway, sealing the boys inside.

“Kurt!” Blaine hears the old man yell with panic in his voice. “Kurt! No!”

As the image dissolves and the heat from the fire fades, it’s not Andrew’s voice Blaine hears calling out Kurt’s name anymore. It’s his own voice. Blaine feels his mouth dry, his throat burning, and after a second of silence another voice joins his again.

“Blaine?” The voice sounds foggy and far away. Blaine wants to get to it, to hold it, to belong to it, and he runs toward it in his mind. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“Blaine?” He feels a hand shake his shoulder. “Wake up, sweetie. Wake up.”

Blaine can’t make his eyes open, and in his mind, he’s running in the dark.

He feels another shake to his shoulder.

“Blaine, I need you to wake up.”

Blaine reaches up to the hand on his shoulder and closes his fingers around it.

Touching it forces new images to flood his mind.

Kurt lying in the cellar, broken in a hundred irreparable pieces.

An image of Kurt dressed in a fine suit with sorrow-filled eyes.

Kurt sighing with his head stuck out the window of Blaine’s car.

Kurt lying in the sun, his porcelain skin glowing with soft, golden light.

Kurt pressing cool lips against Blaine’s skin.

“Wake up,” Kurt whispers.

Blaine’s eyes fly open and he’s staring at Kurt – puppet Kurt - in his bedroom, in the dark.

“Blaine,” Kurt says, putting a hand behind Blaine’s head and stroking his hair. “What’s wrong?”

Blaine is panting, his heart pounding so hard he feels physically ill. The blankets on his side of the bed have been shoved off his body and his skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. His mouth is still dry and his throat still burns.

“You died…you died in a fire,” Blaine pants out, his voice raw.

Kurt flinches, but he doesn’t move away.

“Yes,” Kurt says calmly. “Yes, I did.”

Blaine’s heart races so fast his whole body feels ready to explode.

“Do you remember?” Blaine asks, putting a hand over Kurt’s.

“I sort of did,” Kurt admits. “Not entirely. It was a notion…or a nightmare. But now that you say it out loud like that, I know it’s true.”

Blaine nods, more revelations pressing at his brain.

“You saved Andrew’s life,” Blaine says. “You tried to save Sebastian’s life.”

Kurt’s lips twitch as they attempt to smile.

“I tried,” he says softly. “I really did try. But the fire spread so fast, we got caught up in it so quickly.”

Blaine watches Kurt relive the memory in his mind and curses to himself. Without intending to, he invaded Kurt’s privacy. It was like he read Kurt’s diary, only worse. He was there, he saw it all – he didn’t have the right.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, shivering as the sweat cools on his skin and his heartbeat slows to human levels. “I didn’t mean to…it just happens.”

“No,” Kurt says, reaching for the blanket and dragging it up over Blaine’s body when he notices him tremble. “It saves me trying to find the words to tell you…”

“That Seabastian loved you?” Blaine asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Kurt runs his hand up the blanket that covers Blaine’s body, pushing gently on his shoulders to lay him back down.

“Yes,” Kurt says, “but I didn’t love him. Not that way.”

Kurt looks down at Blaine’s face, carding his fingers through his curls, pulling a few tangles loose while Blaine thinks back on everything he saw, the tragedy of Kurt’s life ending before his eyes.

“What does it feel like to die?” Blaine asks abruptly, not too sure that was the question on his lips waiting to be asked.

Kurt shakes his head and lies down on his pillow.

“I don’t really remember,” Kurt says. “The feeling of dying, I mean. That moment when you go from being to not being anymore.” Kurt pauses. “I remember being scared, knowing I was going to die, but then I just wasn’t scared anymore. I guess at that point I was gone and nothing else mattered. I remember being apart from my body, moving away to something bright and glorious. I could feel it at my back and as much as I wanted to go to it, I couldn’t. There were too many people I needed to see. Too many people I wanted to take care of.”

“Andrew?” Blaine asks, the name leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

“Yeah,” Kurt responds, moving forward and braving an arm around Blaine’s waist. Blaine scoots forward into Kurt’s embrace, and Kurt snakes another arm beneath Blaine’s neck. “And my dad. He came to the funeral. I saw him there. He was so…lost. I wanted to go to him, to apologize, to tell him I should never have left him, but the funny thing was, I knew he would be fine. Sebastian’s dad…he blamed himself so much for what happened to us. I couldn’t leave him. Despite everything, he took care of us.”

Blaine thinks about the memory of that night, of everything that happened while Kurt was upstairs talking to Sebastian.

“How did you know about the letters?” Blaine asks, yawning, leaning his head into Kurt’s chest. “From your dad, from Stanford…”

“He told me,” Kurt says, running his fingers up Blaine’s back, “when he was putting me…putting this puppet body together. And when he performed the spell, we shared some of his memories. All spells have a price, and this one…it forces you to confess your deepest secrets. We saw everything, heard everything. That’s how we found out.”

And without meaning to, Blaine’s heart splinters a little…for Sebastian.

The room goes still, and Kurt’s fingers stop moving as he waits for Blaine to say something.

“Blaine?” Kurt asks, looking into the face of the boy in his arms. His eyes had fluttered shut a while ago, and now he breathes in deep, relaxed, asleep but not completely at peace. Kurt rests his cheek atop Blaine’s head, in the nest of his dark curly hair. What he wouldn’t give to feel Blaine’s hair tickling his cheek, or to smell the scent of his shampoo. Blaine makes a small noise and moves in closer, and Kurt shakes all thoughts of self-pity from his head. He has too much to look forward to in this new life to spend any time lingering on his regrets. He presses a kiss to the top of Blaine’s head and lets himself fall into that place that’s not exactly awake for him, not exactly asleep, but lets him ponder the possibilities of this new life, this new world, this new boy…this new chance for love.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

_The tented cards move quickly beneath the man’s nimble hands – nothing but a blur to the eager brown eyes of the girl whose dimwitted boyfriend was about to lose a day’s pay. He had come at the raven-haired man with some big words and penny bets, but now the rube was quiet as a mouse and in it over his head with a whole dollar on the line._

_Of course, the man with the crooked grin and the head of black curls dealing the cards isn’t necessarily on the up and up. He has a peculiar set of skills that he doesn’t openly talk about, but which help him in his line of business. His con of choice is Three-card Monte. He doesn’t need a shill to help him swindle these simple country fools. The cards talk to him, but so do most things. If he had to explain it, he would say he’s overly perceptive. He sees things before they happen, so in his life there are few surprises. His parents liked to call it pure dumb luck…that is until they kicked him out of their house and told him never to show his face around again. That’s fine by him. He has no problem being on his own, especially when he can tell right off the bat who he can trust and who he should stay away from. He uses his special gift to win several of the games along the boardwalk before setting up his own and waiting for dolts like this one to try their luck._

_All the luck belongs to him, so they never even have a chance._

_“Find the pretty lady, find the pretty lady,” he says, tossing the cards quickly, and then letting them fall where they want. He lifts his whiskey-hued hazel eyes and fixes them on the man in front of him, who studies the cards carefully like he’s reading the Bible._

_“This one,” the mark says, jabbing at the card to the far left with his index finger. The man who dealt the cards hisses doubtfully and shakes his head._

_“Are you sure it’s that one?” he asks. “Because I wouldn’t want you to lose a dollar if you’re not entirely sure.”_

_The mark looks down at his chosen card, his finger pressing it down flat onto the table, his conviction slipping with every second the man stares at him, waiting for him to make a decision._

_“Come on, Peter,” the mud-colored brunette says, bouncing on her feet, “the show’s gonna start and we’re gonna be late. Just make a choice already.”_

_“Yeah, Peter,” the man says, his crooked grin becoming more so. “Pick a card so we can wrap this up.”_

_Peter’s finger on his card begins to waver, and with a huff he switches to the middle card instead. The girl claps and giggles, and the man flips over the card to reveal (with a tiny, hidden glimmer of triumph in his eyes) the three of spades._

_“Ooo,” the man says as the girl’s inane clapping dies down and Peter stares on in disbelief, “tough luck, kid.” He flips over the first card Peter chose to reveal the money card – the queen of hearts. “But those are the breaks. You should always stick to your first instincts.”_

_The dealer collects up his cards without looking at his mark. Peter watches, his body shaking with barely restrained outrage._

_“I want my dollar back,” Peter says, his voice low and his tone threatening._

_“I’m sorry,” the man says, pocketing his deck and Peter’s lost dollar. “No refunds.”_

_“That’s a whole day’s paycheck…” Peter leans forward with these words, trying to use his full head’s height difference to intimidate the man who doesn’t even spare him a glance, “and I’m not throwing it away on you.”_

_“Well, then you should be more careful what you do with it.” The man’s eyes bypass Peter as he winks at the brunette girl with a click of his tongue. He turns on his heel, making to leave, but Peter bars his exit with an arm stuck out, bracing against the wall behind him._

_“Peter,” the girl says, “let’s just go.”_

_“You should listen to your girl, Peter,” the man says in a tone leaps and bounds more dangerous than Peter’s, “unless you want that arm of yours broke. How are you going to earn back your dollar tomorrow with a stump instead of an arm?”_

_The man turns his eyes up to look at Peter hovering over him. Peter’s eyes bore into his, challenging, ready for a fight, but the man with the cards in his pocket is calm, relaxed, and unwilling to back down._

_“Ah, you’re not worth it,” Peter spits, pushing himself off the wall he’s leaning against and storming off the way they had come._

_“So, are we heading to the show?” the girl asks, taking off after her boyfriend._

_“I don’t have any more money on me, Bridgette,” Peter barks out, “so, no. We ain’t going to no Goddamned show!”_

_The man shakes his head and rolls his eyes, pulling the dollar he won from his front pocket. He folds it in half lengthwise, runs it beneath his nose, and gives it a good long sniff._

_“Ahhh,” he sighs, folding it up and shoving it back into his pocket, almost drunk off that look of rage in Peter’s eyes. He loved his job. He nearly got off on it._

_With a pocket full of money he didn’t have an hour before, he considers his choices. He needs to eat. That’s priority number one. And if he could find a lay for the night, that would be the cherry on the ice-cream sundae. He turns back around to head for the boardwalk. With his foot hovering in the air, he stops at what he sees coming his way - two young men cutting through the crowd that make him stop and stare. He can’t help himself. They’re both beautifully young, both incredibly handsome, and they look painfully naïve - though the shorter one with the pale skin and the blue eyes more so than his green-eyed companion. Normally he would pull out his deck of cards and invite them to play, but he sees something in the shorter boy’s clear eyes that he doesn’t often see out here while he combs the streets for prey._

_This boy is not jaded by life, or society, or circumstance. His smile, though guileless, is also genuine. Those unspeakable blue eyes are brimming with intelligence, and the man watching him seems to know that underneath that innocent exterior is a boy who probably can’t be swindled easily._

_The two prepare to pass him by when the green-eyed boy turns and locks eyes with him._

_“What are you staring at?” he snaps, putting an arm protectively around his friend and pulling him closer._

_“Not you,” he replies, staring straight into the surprised blue eyes of the boy in front of him. He steps forward, but the green-eyed boy steps back, taking his companion back a step with him. He keeps his gaze glued to the blushing young man’s face, resisting the urge to shoot the other obnoxious twit a withering glare. “Hello, gorgeous. My name’s Devon,” he says with a side-ways grin. “Devon Anderson.” He extends his hand towards the young man, who steps forward and takes it._

_“Kurt,” the boy replies, shaking the man’s hand once. “Kurt Hummel.”_

_“Kurt,” Devon repeats, saying the word softly, like the prelude to a kiss, and the boy’s cheeks color pink and pretty, high on his cheeks. Devon is suddenly fascinated by this young man in front of him, with eyes like cool water and skin as smooth and perfect as fine bone China._

_“Yeah, and my name’s Sebastian,” his snarky friend says, tugging Kurt by the shoulders and pulling his hand from Devon’s grasp. “I’m sorry to break this up, but we’ve got a show to perform.” Sebastian puts weight on the words as if they should matter to Devon. He nods, but his eyes never leave Kurt’s face._

_“Are you two boys in that Smythe and Sons folly down at the forum?”_

_“Yeah,” Kurt says._

_“We’re headliners,” Sebastian puts in with an air of importance._

_“I saw that a few nights ago. Quite a bit of a farce, I’ll tell you that…” He smiles when Sebastian scowls but he doesn’t linger on his face too long, turning his hazel eyes on Kurt again. “But the boy with the silver pipes here was worth the price of the ticket. A whole nickel.”_

_“That’s sweet of you to say, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt says._

_“Please,” the man says, “call me Devon.”_

_“Devon,” Kurt says, and for the first time in a long while, Devon feels his heart stutter._

_“Super. Well, we have to get going,” Sebastian says again, sounding defensive and maybe a bit jealous._

_“Hey,” Devon says, following after Kurt before his ill-tempered friend can yank him away. “Whatcha doin’ later? Maybe I can take you out for a soda after your show?”_

_Kurt bites his lip, his eyes darting down to his shoes and the dirt beneath his feet, an unconscious reminder to keep himself grounded. His dreams aren’t here, that’s for sure, and he can’t let himself get attached to anything that might keep him here._

_“Maybe in another life,” Kurt says coyly, turning away from the man with the raven curls, who stands against the wall and watches the boy walk away, a small hole forming in his chest._

_“It’s a date,” Devon whispers, taking a last look at Kurt before he walks completely out of his life._

* * *

 

Blaine wakes up with a smile on his face, mumbling the words to one of his favorite songs.

_You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on…_

As he becomes more aware – as his mind leaves the bustling boardwalk from his dream behind – he can hear the tune playing in the air around him. He opens his eyes to the morning sunlight. He stretches his arms over his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his back, stiff from slouching over Sebastian’s puppet body earlier this morning, and that’s when he realizes he is hearing the music, playing somewhere off in the distance.

The living room. He left his cell phone on the floor in the living room.

Crap .

He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He doesn’t want to wake up after getting nearly negative hours of sleep.

He doesn’t want to leave Kurt.

He debates the merits of ignoring the ringing phone. They’re ripping out the walls today, but it’s just a house. Who would really be impacted if they put off demolition for one day? He knows he’d be happy to call in sick and spend the rest of the day wrapped up in Kurt’s arms. Blaine sighs, daydreaming of an afternoon full of nothing but slow kisses and the occasional nap. He still has yet to ask Kurt his feelings about that. But he knows they can’t right now. They’re moving on in the renovation, and Blaine has a job to do.

That could be the contractor calling this very minute.

Besides, with Sebastian around the house, there probably wouldn’t be much uninterrupted making out going on between them.

Blaine groans, but only in his head so he doesn’t wake Kurt up. He takes a look at the resting puppet, his eyes shut, his pink lips forming a sweet smile, his cheeks unnaturally rosy, but the permanent flush of color suits him. Blaine wonders what Kurt would do if he put a kiss to his forehead…to his cheek…to his smiling mouth…

The phone stops ringing and Blaine gladly starts to climb back in bed, but then the song begins again, signaling that whoever it was called back. The ringing phone is a persistent presence, summoning Blaine from beneath the covers. He leaves the bed and tiptoes into the living room, the floor ice-cold beneath his feet.

Scorching hot days, freezing cold nights.

It was such a joy to be in a desert.

With his sole focus on silencing the ringing phone, he accidentally hits the blanket on the floor and slides, almost falling forward on his face. He catches himself and scoops up his phone just as it stops ringing. Blaine growls at the Godforsaken thing, mumbling nonsense warnings at it underneath his breath. He stands up, hoping that the sound of him tripping didn’t wake Sebastian. Blaine isn’t in the mood to lure him out of Cooper’s room with the promise of another argument. He peeks at the door, open a crack, the room inside suspiciously dark for this hour of the morning. Blaine frowns at trying so hard to avoid him. He doesn’t want this to turn into a feud. It would all be so much easier if they could find some kind of middle ground and become friends, though that’s less than likely to happen when Sebastian hates his guts.

Blaine plops down into the dining room chair and looks at his phone. He missed four calls – all from Cooper. _Now_ Blaine groans out loud. He can’t escape drama, no matter how hard he tries. If he’s not plagued by one self-important ass, why not another? Blaine is about to pocket his phone and ignore him, but he annoyingly discovers he can’t. He doesn’t really feel like talking to his older brother but he can’t prolong the inevitable. He can’t finish the renovation without Cooper and bowing out is not an option. Blaine is not that kind of person.

Besides, Cooper is his brother, and like it or not Blaine has worked hard to have this relationship with him, even if he is a conceited egomaniac. Blaine redials the number, waiting with the phone held away from his ear for his brother to answer, hoping that the call goes to voicemail.

“Hey, squirt.”

_No such luck._

“What do you want, Cooper?” Blaine asks, using his exhaustion to help fuel his bitterness. “Are you calling about the house, or did you want to tell me what an idiot I am again?”

Cooper sighs into the phone, hoping that after 24 hours Blaine wouldn’t be upset anymore.

“Look,” Cooper says, “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean what I said. You’re not stupid. I just…I just worry about you.”

Blaine looks down at his feet against the hard wood floor, hot skin causing vapor to form on the slick, chilled surface. He doesn’t say anything because in his mind there’s nothing he needs to say.

He might have just brushed Cooper’s comment away if he hadn’t mentioned their parents. Cooper knows that the issue Blaine has with their folks is a hot-button one, but Cooper loves to push buttons so much that sometimes Blaine doesn’t think Cooper knows he’s doing it.

“And that house…” he continues when Blaine doesn’t speak, “I know it’s messing with your head.”

That statement Blaine has to agree with. There _is_ something about that house. He felt it before he even went into it - something even more than Kurt and Sebastian. Something more he’s still missing, he thinks.

“I know,” he says quietly in non-committal agreement, raising a hand to wipe the grains of sleep from the corners of his eyes, “but like I said, you don’t have to worry about me, especially if you’re going to be an ass about it.”

“But, I do worry about you, little brother,” Cooper says in that sincere voice Blaine only hears on the rarest occasions. “I love you, you big nerd.”

Suddenly it’s all right there – a disjointed, rambling explanation about Andrew and the spell and Kurt and Sebastian and the fire that killed them. He wants to tell his brother. He needs to tell _someone_. As much as he cares for Kurt, as much as he needs to keep him safe, all of these secrets are aching in Blaine’s body to be told, but as much as he tries, the words don’t come out.

“I love you, too,” Blaine says in their place, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair and sliding down so far he nearly falls to the floor.

“So…am I forgiven?” Cooper asks, knowing better than to try and charm his way out of an argument with his brother but giving it a shot anyway.

Blaine smiles. He can’t stay mad at Cooper for too long. He’s not just his brother – he’s his friend. An inappropriate friend you try not to bring over to your house too often if you can help it, but a friend.

One of his best friends.

“Speaking of…how’s your head?” Cooper asks, which Blaine knows is code for _has he had any visions lately?_

Cooper believes in his brother’s abilities – always has, ever since Blaine was little and his mother dismissed the creepily accurate things he said as mere coincidence, or _good guesses_.

Cooper doesn’t _want_ to believe, but he believes.

“It’s alright,” Blaine says, “nothing too out-of-the-ordinary, only…I had kind of an interesting dream about Great-Grandpa Devon.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cooper says with a laugh, slipping comfortably back into his usual cocky self. “He had some weird voodoo thing going on like you do.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, “I remember dad saying something about that a long time ago.” He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, trying to recall as much of the dream as he can. This isn’t the first time he’d dreamt of his great-grandfather. He had been kind of named after him, and his grandmother always said that names carry connections – strong connections. Could those connections include psychic powers?

This dream couldn’t have been a _memory_. Kurt and Sebastian were in it, and Blaine can’t remember ever seeing either of them in a dream before.

But it seemed so real. As he woke up this morning, he could smell traces of popcorn from the boardwalk mixed with the sweet scent of cotton candy, and some sort of strong cologne – probably something Peter was wearing.

“He apparently had some great scam going,” Cooper says, “all up and down the West Coast. Was tarred and feathered in one town, I think.”

“God,” Blaine exhales, pondering how painful it would be to remove hardened tar from a human body without taking the skin off along with it. Strangely, the way his skin prickles and his muscles go rigid, it feels like an experience he’s already had.

“Yeah, I know,” Cooper commiserates. “So…moving on. Yay! I’m forgiven! Thank God, because that last footage you sent me was shit. I need some better stuff, tout de suite.” Blaine winces at Cooper’s butchered high school French. “I’m on a deadline, you know.”

Blaine snickers.

“Do you even know the meaning of the word ‘deadline’?” Blaine jokes.

“Yes, I do,” Cooper mocks, “unlike you, who have apparently forgotten.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Blaine asks.

“The sketches?” Cooper asks. “Does that ring a bell?”

Blaine thinks a moment of their conversation yesterday, all those stupid texts, with no mention of…

“Shit!” Blaine mutters, jerking upright. Cooper is right. He had forgotten.

Thinking back on the rest of yesterday, it’s easy to see how.

“Shit’s right, Blaine,” Cooper says. Blaine can here Cooper’s normal shuffling around, pecking at computer keys, shifting papers. “I have a buyer already interested in the house but he wants to see what we intend on doing with it first, so I need those sketches pronto. Pronto-issimo, if possible.”

“Yeah, sure,” Blaine covers, so overwhelmed that he doesn’t even bother to point out that ‘pronto-issimo’ isn’t a real word. He curses quietly, knowing that a decent mock-up is going to take more time than he has.

“Focus on the main rooms,” Cooper says, biting into an apple and talking with his mouth full. “Don’ wor’y ‘bout the basemen’ an’ all that.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, standing and pacing the floor, trying to get his blurry brain to think, “will do. Why don’t you let me get going so I can get you…that.”

“Great,” Cooper drawls sloppily, taking another bite. “Than’s a lot, bud’y. I’ll tal’ wit you la’er.”

“Don’t choke on your apple,” Blaine says and then disconnects the call.

He paces a few more steps and then curses out loud.

“Shit!” he says, tapping his chin with his phone and stomping back to the bedroom. “Shitshitshitshitshit…”

He stops cursing when he walks through the bedroom door. He expects to see Kurt asleep. He had hoped to climb back into bed again and sneak his arms around him. But Kurt is sitting up at the edge of the bed with his sewing in hand as he waits for Blaine to return.

“Good morning, Blaine,” Kurt says with a smile that Blaine wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning. He eyes the phone in Blaine’s hand and tilts his head. “Who would call you so early?”

“My brother,” Blaine says with a one-armed shrug, distracted.

“Oh,” Kurt says as he ties off his thread. He reaches over to Blaine’s desk for a pair of scissors and delicately clips the end. “You know, I was wondering…” Kurt starts. His smile becomes bashful and he avoids Blaine’s eyes by concentrating on hiding the knotted end of his thread, “I would like to try and help you out today…with the house, if I can.”

Blaine nods, not entirely paying attention.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. I’m certain I can find…”

Blaine smiles as Kurt’s offer registers and the perfect opportunity leaps immediately to mind.

“Actually, I _can_ use your help today,” Blaine says. Kurt sits up straight, trying to bite his lip, probably out of habit, but not quite making it. “I was wondering if you would be willing to help me with some sketches.”

“Sketches?” Kurt asks, his eyebrows meeting in the middle.

“Remember the sketches you did while you were in the car? Of the house? I need some sketches done of the living room, the bed rooms, the kitchen…you know, the important rooms.”

“Okay,” Kurt says, sounding a bit skeptical, “and why would you need that?”

“Because I need to show people who are interested in buying the house what it’s going to look like when we’re done with it,” Blaine explains, taking a seat beside Kurt on the bed, “and I kind of was supposed to do it yesterday. I might have forgotten.”

Blaine looks up at him with open, pleading eyes and a downturned mouth, leaning his head on Kurt’s shoulder and looking ridiculously childish. Kurt chuckles.

“But how am I supposed to know what it’s going to look like?” Kurt asks, pushing at Blaine’s shoulder but not hard enough to move him away.

“Just draw what you think it should look like,” Blaine says. “We’re restoring it to as close to the original style as possible.”

Blaine looks at Kurt and Kurt looks right back.

“I trust you,” Blaine adds and Kurt shakes his head.

“Alright,” Kurt agrees. “I think I can do that.” Kurt looks down at his hands, at his twiddling thumbs. “Will I be able to take a peek inside the house?” he asks. “I know it might sound silly, but I’m kind of curious. I kind of need to go back.”

“It doesn’t sound silly at all,” Blaine says, remembering the time his sophomore year when he had been bullied at a school dance. A few homophobic jocks ganged up on him and his date, and had beaten him up pretty badly. After that, he didn’t want to go back to school. He asked his parents to transfer him somewhere else and they agreed, but his father told him that if he ran away from bullies like that, he’d be running forever. Blaine didn’t think he could ever walk the halls of McKinley again, but he gave it a chance, and he did it with his head held high.

Blaine understands that sometimes it’s important to revisit the prisons that try to break you and prove they don’t have that power.

Kurt was trapped in that house - in that prison - literally broken. It would make sense that he would want to walk back into that house whole.

“Let’s get dressed and get an early start,” Blaine suggests, patting at Kurt’s knee.

“Any particular reason?” Kurt asks, following Blaine with his eyes as the boy heads back toward the living room. Blaine stops and turns around in the doorway.

“I was hoping to wrap up early today,” Blaine explains. “This way I can ask you out on another date.” Blaine winks at Kurt and leaves it at that, padding across the wood floor of the still empty living room and heading for the dining room. He looks left and right, at both bedroom doors, and then ducks beneath the table.

He left the three journals from yesterday stuffed underneath the rear seat in his car, mostly read, but he needs new ones to read. Blaine wants to understand Sebastian. He wants to find a reason why this boy who seemed so besotted by Kurt - who still seems so in love with him - can treat him the way he does, with so much hurt and disdain. He can’t exactly ask Sebastian these questions, so he decides to go to the source and read what Andrew has to say about his son. He wants to understand the relationship Sebastian had with his father that molded the acerbic personality he has. His father couldn’t have always been so apathetic about his son. There had to have been a time when he loved his boy. What happened between them? What was the turning point?

He tears open all the boxes at once to save time and rummages through the many journals, inspecting the dates on the covers. He knows what he’s trying to find. _1923_ – the year before the Smythes found Kurt, and perhaps _1929_ – the year Andrew Smythe was planning to pawn off his son’s virginity. He comes across 1929 first, right after 1927 in the space left by the journal he borrowed yesterday, but he can’t seem to find 1923…or 1922. He was sure they were there before, but now they’re gone.

He hears footsteps in both bedrooms, and has to think quickly. Kurt doesn’t know he has the journals and he’s not sure what Kurt would say about him reading them, but Blaine doesn’t think this is the best way for him to find out.

He has an idea. He rifles through the books and finds the one that smells like smoke – _1932_. He stares at it, at the cover still blanketed in a layer of fine ash. Touching it, running his fingers through the filth and collecting it up on his fingers, triggers a memory – the heat, the flames, the screams. It’s the journal that was lying on the small table in Andrew Smythe’s house during that tragic fire. Somehow it survived the blaze. Blaine peeks into the other boxes he hadn’t opened yet to make sure the journals he’s looking for didn’t migrate there. The dates continue up and up, well into the sixties and seventies, and as clues click together and thoughts formulate in his head, Blaine has a sudden streak of inspiration. Andrew Smythe wrote constantly. He recorded the events of nearly every single day, even after his son and Kurt had died. Maybe somewhere in these journals is the answer to saving Kurt and Sebastian. Maybe the spell he used is written down somewhere in these later journals, along with the way to reverse it.

Blaine hears a creak in the floor and a footstep coming closer.

“Kurt?” he calls out from beneath the cloth, but he doesn’t get a reply. He takes off his t-shirt and wraps it around the two books he has in his hands. Then he closes the flaps of the boxes, leaving them basically covered since he doesn’t have the time to tuck in the flaps. He crawls out from beneath the table, smacking his head on the lip as he backs out completely. He rubs the sore spot on his head with his hand and stands, running straight into an unpleasant smirking face.

“Hey, Sebastian,” Blaine says dryly, hugging the concealed books to his chest.

“Hey there, sport,” Sebastian answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatcha doin’ under there?”

Blaine looks the puppet over, noticing that Sebastian had found a pair of pants and a t-shirt in his brother’s closet that fit him. Having his wooden body covered up made him only a little less unsettling.

“Nothing,” Blaine answers blandly. “Just getting something I needed for today.” He lifts the wrapped books in his arms slightly, but doesn’t offer them up for Sebastian’s approval.

“A-ha,” Sebastian says, raising an eyebrow the same way Kurt often does, but in Sebastian’s case, it seems sinister. “And you keep important things under the dining room table.”

Blaine becomes annoyed that he’s being interrogated by Sebastian and that this unwarranted line of questioning is keeping him from getting back to Kurt, who he had asked on another date.

“Well, where would you keep them?” Blaine asks, brushing past Sebastian with a smile starting on his face, unconcerned with what Sebastian may think of him.

Besides, if Blaine’s right and the journals under the table hold the secret to reversing the spell, Blaine might not have to deal with Sebastian any more. His soul will be free of his puppet body and he can move on.

A step away from his door, with his hand reaching for the door knob, the thought boomeranged around and hit him in the chest.

Reversing Andrew’s spell won’t give him a _human_ Kurt. It will free Kurt’s soul from his puppet body.

Blaine thinks it over and over, but he can’t deny that seems like the only logical recourse.

Saving Kurt from an eternity as a puppet means releasing his soul and sending him on.

After that, Blaine might never see Kurt again.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt comes out of the bedroom and almost walks straight into Blaine, who is standing in the doorway, struck dumb by his thoughts.

“Oh!” Kurt yelps, putting a hand to his chest. “Good heavens, you gave me a start. I didn’t expect you to be right there!”

“Sorry,” Blaine says, “I…”

Blaine blinks and looks at Kurt, who is dressed in one of Blaine’s own short sleeve button-down shirts and the black slacks of his father’s that Kurt has been hemming. Blaine smiles, his fears of losing Kurt forgotten for the moment as he appreciates the way the new pants perfectly drape over Kurt’s legs.

“My goodness,” Blaine says, stepping back and looking down Kurt’s body. Kurt seizes the opportunity to strike a pose as a ploy to cover his self-consciousness. “You did a wonderful job.”

“Do you think so?” Kurt asks, spinning around slowly so that Blaine can see the pants from all sides.

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “And I have to add that I like you in my blue shirt.”

“You do?”

Blaine nods.

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“I’m glad,” Kurt says with a sigh of relief. “I didn’t want you to be upset that I took the liberty of borrowing your clothes.”

“Borrow whatever you like,” Blaine says, raising a hand to fix Kurt’s shirt collar, even though it didn’t need any fixing. “Mi wardrobe su wardrobe.”

“Oh, good grief,” Sebastian mutters, stomping off back to Cooper’s bedroom with Abigail materializing suddenly and scampering after him, close on his heels.

“Come on, Sebastian,” Kurt says with a cheerful drawl to his voice. “Get dressed.”

“For what?” Sebastian asks, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the obnoxious pair of fools in front of him.

“Don’t you want to come with Blaine and me?” Kurt asks. “If that’s okay with you, that is, Blaine.”

“Of course,” Blaine says, plastering a fake smile on his face so wide that it almost makes his lips crack. “The more the merrier.”

“Going with Blaine _where_ , exactly?” Sebastian asks, growing visibly more dubious with each question.

“Back to the house. Blaine has some work he has to do fixing the place up and I’m going to help him.”

Blaine’s fake smile softens at the adorable way Kurt puffs his chest out proudly at that, but Sebastian drops his head back on his neck, banging it lightly against the wood of the doorway. The resulting _crack_ noise of wood against wood, reminiscent to the sound a bowling ball makes when it hits pins, is something Blaine isn’t sure he’s going to get used to.

“Oh no,” Sebastian says, putting up his hands. “I’m not going back to that place anytime soon. No way, no how.”

Blaine bites his lip, giving him time to think before he’s expected to try and convince Sebastian to come along, which is what he’s sure Kurt wants. Blaine would prefer it if Sebastian stayed at the beach house to sulk, but he’s not too thrilled with the idea of leaving a vindictive Sebastian alone to do God knows what.

“Look,” Sebastian says, inferring the meaning behind Blaine’s silence, “I might hate you, but I’m not going to bite the hand that feeds me, either. Like it or not, I need you, like Kurt needs you, to negotiate this being alive and shit, so, just leave me the remote to the TV, point me in the direction of a few good books, and I promise I’ll be a good boy.”

Blaine looks Sebastian over as the wooden puppet continues to stare up at the ceiling. Blaine hasn’t spent as much time assessing Sebastian as he has Kurt, but looking at him this time, he seems burdened, vulnerable. Sometimes it’s hard for Blaine to remember that this God-awful thing happened to the both of them – not only to Kurt. Maybe he saw the attack on Kurt through Kurt’s eyes because he and Kurt seem to have some special connection, but Sebastian was attacked, too. He was attacked _first_. He defended Kurt. He took blows meant for Kurt. That has to be worth a smidgen of Blaine’s trust.

“I believe him,” Kurt says, slipping his hand into Blaine’s, his voice more confident and self-assured. “I don’t think he’s going to do anything bad.”

Blaine only needs Kurt’s reassurance to help him make his decision.

“Alright,” Blaine says. “You can stay.”

“Thank you, oh benevolent dictator,” Sebastian replies, heavy with sarcasm.

Blaine grits his teeth and runs his hands through his hair. He understands Sebastian’s frustration. He went from being trapped in one house to being trapped in another, but there’s little Blaine can do about that.

“I’m going to go pull the trash bins down to the curb for the garbage men,” Blaine says, turning his attention back to Kurt. “Pick me out something to wear?”

“Sure thing,” Kurt says, leaning in and giving Blaine a kiss on the cheek.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and disappears into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The sound makes Kurt jump, but he doesn’t look as wary about Sebastian and his anger anymore.

“Just…give him some time. He’ll come around,” Kurt says, eying the closed door. “I’m sure he will.”

“Of course he will,” Blaine agrees, taking Sebastian’s tantrum in his stride. “I’m not worried.” Blaine’s smile for Kurt is tight but Kurt doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the task of finding Blaine something to wear for the day. Blaine watches Kurt head for his closet, open the door, and then stand with his hip cocked and a finger pressed to his lip as he mulls over the clothes hanging in front of him. Then Blaine heads outside to take care of the trash. He pulls the blue recycling bin and the grey trash bin down to the curb, lifting the lid of the grey bin to bid a final farewell to that despicable suit. It lies draped over rotting food, unchanged except for an army of black flies and maggots surrounding it, summoned by the summer heat.

“Good riddance,” he mutters, slamming the lid shut and giving the container a kick.

* * *

 

Blaine is quiet on the ride down to the project house, but Kurt doesn’t seem to mind. He has his head resting against his crossed arms on the sill of the open car window, the wind whipping through his hair, the sun warming his face, thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Blaine, dressed in the blue corduroy pants and the zip stripe pullover Kurt chose for him, feels on a different plane of existence from his content friend, his mind absorbed by his thoughts of finding a spell that can help Kurt. But if helping him means losing him... No, Blaine cannot be selfish. It’s not his place to decide for Kurt. Maybe Kurt doesn’t want to be a puppet any more. Maybe the time they get to spend together is _meant_ to be temporary.

He steals a few glances at an untroubled Kurt, wishing that wherever Kurt is in his head, he could be with him.

Maybe Blaine is overreacting. Maybe this isn’t the end. What if there is a spell that can make Kurt a real human? If there’s a spell to turn him into a puppet, becoming human can’t be too far a stretch in the realm of belief…can it?

The car is silent except for the sound of wind rushing through the open window, and when Blaine turns to look at Kurt again, the puppet is leaning in close with a hand cupped over his left ear.

“What are you doing?” Blaine asks with a laugh.

“Well, you’re thinking so loudly I can almost make out a few words, but it’s hard to hear over the sound of traffic.”

Blaine chuckles. Kurt sits up, leaning against his chair and staring as Blaine keeps his eyes on the road.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” Kurt asks. “Is it Sebastian?”

Blaine’s jaw clenches when he tries to smile Kurt’s worries away.

“It’s alright if you don’t like him,” Kurt says, his voice ebbing, expecting an ultimatum. “He was my only friend for a long time, and most of the time _I_ could barely stand him.”

Blaine chuckles again, but this time he sits lower in his seat, relaxing as Kurt talks.

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you,” Kurt continues, “to put up with him…and me.”

Blaine turns his head.

“You think I’m just putting up with you?” Blaine asks. He slows down as he takes the exit to Harbor Drive, looking from the road to Kurt. Kurt shrinks an inch into his seat and Blaine notices. “I’m not _putting up_ with you, Kurt. I enjoy hanging out with you. I enjoy being with you.”

“Really?” Kurt asks.

“Really,” Blaine says, shifting nervously in his seat. “In fact, I know we haven’t really known each other more than a few days, but I was hoping…”

He turns the corner, looks out the windshield, and stops the car as well as his sentence. Down the normally empty cul-de-sac are parked cars and trucks, back to back, some two deep. A dumpster has been delivered and is sitting at the curve of the curb, waiting to be filled. A U-Haul truck (not Gary’s this time) sticks out from the curb at an obtrusive angle.

“Crap,” Blaine whispers, watching as groups of people segregate and form, waiting for his arrival.

“What is it, Blaine?” Kurt folds his hands in his lap, hoping that Blaine will finish what he had started to say before he throws himself into the obvious mob waiting for him.

“Uh…I didn’t expect this,” he admits. “I thought we would get here before everybody else, considering all the no-shows from yesterday.”

Kurt watches the expression on Blaine’s face change and knows that whatever he was going to say is gone for the time being.

“So, how exactly am I going to be able to go into the house without anyone seeing…me?” Kurt asks, gesturing down at his puppet body. “I’m sure there’re a few things that people are bound to notice.”

“Easy, actually,” Blaine says, pulling his car to the curb a fair distance from the house. He lets the engine idle, climbing out of the car and walking around to the trunk. He pops it open and grabs something from inside, then returns to Kurt with a white bundle shoved underneath his arm.

“What is that?” Kurt asks when Blaine hands it over.

“This is a biohazard suit,” Blaine explains. “I sometimes wear it during demolition, to protect me from dust and mold and all that.”

Kurt looks at the white suit, and then at Blaine.

“But don’t you need it?”

“I’ll be alright,” Blaine says, waving a hand in front of his face. “Besides, I have a bunch in the trunk. They’re one-time use only. Here…” Blaine reaches across the seat to unbuckle Kurt’s seat belt, “let me help you. It’s kind of confusing your first time.”

“Oh…” Kurt gasps at the feeling of Blaine slipping the boat shoes he borrowed off his feet, his head brushing Kurt’s lap as he works to slip the legs of the plastic garment over them. Blaine folds Kurt’s pant legs over so they don’t get too wrinkled, working clinically, not allowing Kurt’s legs beneath his hands to derail him, clearing his mind of every possible thought so that he won’t slip into the vision curling at the front of his mind.

But it’s a powerful image, and as much as he can push the visual of it away, it’s the sounds of Kurt’s whimpers he can’t ignore, the feeling of his muscular thighs – firm and strong – underneath Blaine’s palms, and a new sensation – Kurt’s hands weeding their way through his hair, tugging, pulling, tightening as he groans and grunts, that beautiful high-pitched whine filling his ears, _“Yes, Blaine! Yes! Yes!”_

Blaine gets the impression, as he continues to roll the suit up Kurt’s body, with Kurt lifting up to help him maneuver around him, that this won’t be the last time he has his head in Kurt’s lap in this car.

By the time Blaine reaches Kurt torso, he’s out of breath, and sweat has started to bead at his hairline. Kurt stares at him puzzled, but he lets Blaine finish pulling the sleeves over his arms and the hood up over his head.

Blaine doesn’t even have to see the full-extent of Kurt’s complicated gaze before he laughs nervously.

“Okay,” Blaine says, moving things along, “now we pull on the string-ties, and the hood will scrunch around your face a bit. That way, all anyone will see is your eyes.” Blaine pulls the strings slowly, watching Kurt’s face disappear behind the plastic with his blue glass eyes peeking out. Blaine leans back to take a better look. If anyone takes a good, long look at Kurt, they’ll notice something is a little off about him, but the likelihood that anyone will care about him one way or another is slim to none.

“There,” Blaine says, pecking a kiss on Kurt’s covered nose, “now you’re invisible.”

“Invisible, huh?” Kurt asks.

“Well,” Blaine says, running a hand over Kurt’s cheek, “ _almost_ invisible. How do you feel?”

Kurt lifts his arms in front of him, wiggling the fingers on his gloved hand, the plastic _crinking_ and _squicking_ as he moves his extremities.

“Very well packaged,” Kurt says. “Kind of like a leftover.”

Blaine laughs and puts the idling car back into gear, driving down the length of the street to park in the only empty spot left – right in front of the house.

Dozens of pairs of eyes look his way when he kills the engine to his vehicle.

Blaine turns to Kurt, eyes peeking out from the plastic suit he’s wearing.

“Are you ready for this?” Blaine asks, putting a hand on Kurt’s knee.

Kurt looks down at the hand. Blaine putting it there is such a simply sweet, nonchalant gesture – nothing insinuated or implied, not searching for more.

But who knew such an innocent touch could be so sexy?

“Yes,” Kurt says, nodding in case the words get lost somewhere between his throat and the cave-like mouth of the suit.

Blaine leans over and reaches into the glove box, pulling out the wireless webcam.

“Okay,” Blaine says, winking at Kurt, withstanding the urge to place one more kiss on Kurt’s nose, or one on his upper lip, or the corner of his mouth… “Our public awaits.”

Blaine steps out of the car, and right away several men and women come forward, all of them veteran house-flippers, several having already worked with Blaine while he’s been in San Diego. Blaine smiles his _business_ _smile_ , watching out of the corner of his eye as Kurt emerges, sketch pad clutched against his chest, looking out of place even though several other crew people are dressed in similar biohazard suits. Blaine switches on the webcam to record the beginnings to the major part of this venture.

“So, this is basically going to be the same as any other renovation…” Blaine starts to the group assembled. Kurt walks up behind him, trying to keep out of the limelight. “I need all the furniture packed up into the U-Haul, all the carpets ripped up, the drywall taken down _carefully_ …”

Kurt watches Blaine command the group of adults, a smile on his face tucked inside the white suit. _So young to be in charge of all these people,_ he thinks. _This is a boy who’s going places. This is a boy with a future._

Kurt doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t let it make him feel bad about his current predicament.

“We won’t be starting in on the basement until tomorrow. And this…” Blaine says, putting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, “is Kurt. He’s my assistant for today working on the design scheme and he has no information with regard to the renovation plans, so don’t ask him.”

People nod, some smile, others look at Kurt as if they know something he doesn’t. The group breaks up, walking back to their individual sections, confident in their assignments.

“Do you know those people well?” Kurt asks, following Blaine as he heads toward the front door.

“No, not really,” Blaine says. “I mean, we talk when we’re on a break but we’re not, like, friends.” Kurt looks over his shoulder at one group in particular where two women are talking, heads leaned in together, staring at Kurt and Blaine and chuckling.

Blaine pulls out his keys and starts to unlock the door.

“Now, there’s going to be a lot of people coming in and out of here, so stick close to me,” Blaine warns him. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He feels Kurt press his body against his.

“Is this close enough?” Kurt asks.

The keys stop turning in the door.

“I think that’ll work,” Blaine says, pushing the door in and propping it open, clearing a path for people to get in and get to work.

Blaine looks back at Kurt, still hugging his notebook to his chest, watching a swarm of people start tearing apart the house, piece by piece dismantling it, his hooded eyes unable to concentrate on one person, one activity, bouncing around at the organized chaos.

“Did you want me to take you upstairs?” Blaine asks. He watches the furniture movers head down the hallway for the dining room and the hidden staircase to the upper level.

“No, uh…can we just stay down here…for a bit?” Kurt asks. “I’m feeling, maybe, a bit overwhelmed.”

“Sure,” Blaine says, reaching back to take Kurt’s hand and give it a light squeeze. “We can for sure hang down here. I’m just going to go ahead and film some of this. Do you mind?”

“No. No. Go ahead.”

Blaine holds Kurt’s hand and sweeps the camera around, picking up the flurry of activity – furniture being moved, trash bagged up and taken out to the dumpster, the start of drywall being cut down. Kurt giggles behind Blaine as he circles in place, holding on to keep his balance.

“So, as you can see, we have the first part of the renovation underway,” Blaine says out loud, recording the footage for Cooper. “As per the request of the San Diego Historical Society, we are having the drywall cut down instead of hammered, which will take a bit longer, but insures that the original structure of the house remains untouched.” Blaine spins around quickly and Kurt laughs louder. Blaine trains the webcam on a group in similar biohazard suits as Kurt’s heading for the kitchen with blue plastic trash bags. “Here we see our clean-up crew heading for the kitchen to manage the mess in there.” Blaine hears the sounds of footsteps tromping through the living room and turns again. “And here we have the furniture from the attic being taken out of the house for use later.” He follows the group carrying the lamps and Queen Victoria wing chairs as they march out the door. “And here we see…Jesus!”

A pair of wire-rimmed frames and piercing eyes pops into view, startling Blaine straight to the bone.

Blaine turns off the webcam and lowers it, coming nose to nose with the severely distasteful man that he was sure he had seen the last of.

“Alex! What are you doing here?” Blaine asks, forgoing niceties. “I didn’t need Gary here today.” Blaine pulls Kurt close behind him, keeping the concealed puppet out of the man’s line of sight. “All the toys are gone.”

“I’m not here because of _him_ ,” Alex says with a sniffle, scrunching his nose at the rising clouds of dust. He reaches into the front pocket of his stiff three-piece suit and pulls out a handkerchief, holding it inefficiently over his nose and mouth.

“Then you’re here because…” Blaine prompts.

“Because you’re tearing out walls,” he says, looking around in disgust, “and I’m still interested in the whereabouts of Sammy. If he’s here, I want to be on hand to see him.”

 _Ugh_! Blaine scoffs quietly, thinking of a way – _any_ way – to get Alex off the property. But not coming up with a single method that wouldn’t require numerous phone calls and more time than he has to spare, he groans.

“Fine! Just…stay out of the way.”

“Of course,” Alex mutters. Kurt peeks over Blaine’s shoulder and sees Alex glaring, but then his eyes find Kurt and he stops. He stares. He leans forward, eyes centering in on Kurt’s glass eyes, which Kurt averts down and away, leaning his forehead against the back of Blaine’s neck in an attempt to hide.

“Interesting,” Alex says, trying to circle Blaine for a better view. “Very interesting.”

“If you don’t mind,” Blaine says, turning his body swiftly and cutting Alex off, wrapping both arms behind him protectively, “we have a lot of work to do.”

“Yes,” Alex says, looking the two boys up and down, “I can see that.”

Alex turns, walks off into a cloud of dust, and disappears.

Blaine shakes his head. On top of taping the demolition and keeping Kurt from getting hurt, now he has to keep an eye out for Alex.

_What else could possibly go wrong?_

“Dear God in heaven, what is that!?” a man from outside yells.

Blaine rolls his eyes to the heavens.

_Did he have to ask?_

“It looks like a mummified baby!” another man calls.

That certainly gets Blaine’s attention. He switches on the webcam – repulsed with himself that _that’s_ his first instinct, but he knows that a mummified baby is something Cooper is going to want on film.

“Don’t touch it!” a third voice yells.

Blaine grabs Kurt’s hand and races outside, pushing his way through the forming crowd with Kurt close on his heels. From what Blaine can tell before the crowd in front of him closes ranks, two men carrying a trunk dropped one end and the thing toppled over, spilling its contents onto the street. Blaine weaves through the group with muttered apologizes and a raised, “Excuse me! Coming through!” here and there. When they come to the center of the commotion – the over-turned chest with a body lying on the asphalt – Blaine has to take a step back.

The _thing_ sprawled out on the ground definitely looks like a mummified baby.

“Sammy!” Kurt chirps from inside his biohazard suit.

Blaine looks away from the pseudo-corpse and stares at him.

“Really?” Blaine turns back to the puppet on the floor. “ _That’s_ the puppet everyone wants to see? _That’s_ Sammy? Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” Kurt laughs. “I’d recognize that horrid thing anywhere.”

“Really,” Alex’s snide voice cuts in. He wedges his way between Blaine and Kurt, separating the two boys as he tries to get a better view at the priceless puppet lying in the street, but he seems more intent on keeping his eyes on the plastic gap that exposes Kurt’s eyes. “That’s very interesting, especially since this puppet went missing long before you were born.”

Blaine looks at the man and raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Internet,” he says, reaching around Alex and taking Kurt’s hand, pulling him toward the puppet. “You’re not the only person in the world with an interest in Vaudeville culture.”

While everyone ooo’s and aah’s over the disturbing puppet, Blaine rights the chest that it was kept in. It’s heavier than Blaine expects now that it’s empty. He sets it upright, examining it front to back, top to bottom. He hadn’t come across it during his initial investigation of the house, and it has Blaine fascinated. It’s a large trunk - much larger than necessary for the size of the puppet kept in it – but shallow. Blaine puts his hand in, pressing down on the floor of the chest, which seems to be secure, but when Blaine looks at it from the outside, it looks as if his hand is only sunk into the trunk a third of the way. Blaine pushes down hard, but the bottom of the chest doesn’t budge. He knocks on it. The chest sounds hollow…though not entirely.

“What do you want to do?” a voice asks as Blaine continues to consider the dimensions of the trunk.

“About what?” he asks, without looking up.

“With the puppet,” a snarky voice asks. It’s Alex – Blaine knows. But he’s had enough of cynical interlopers for a lifetime. He couldn’t care less what the man wants. He just wants to finish for the day and spend the evening out with Kurt.

“Put him back in the chest…for now,” Blaine says, summoning some men on the clean-up crew wearing white gloves to handle the puppet. He waits for Alex to object, except Alex’s interests seem to have flipped from Sammy to Kurt – more so than Blaine feels comfortable with.

“Kurt, why don’t you head to the car and get started on those sketches?” Blaine suggests, stepping in front of Alex and again blocking his view.

“Alright, Blaine,” Kurt says, heading off toward the car with Blaine walking beside him, holding his elbow. Blaine looks back when he hears an aggravated Alex bark, “Pardon me!” but the man is already lost to the crowd, and Blaine can’t say that he’s not relieved.

“And Kurt…” Blaine adds, opening the door for him.

“Yes, Blaine?”

“Keep the doors locked.”

* * *

 

Blaine calls it quits at six o’clock, when the rented dumpster is full to bursting with drywall, and the clean-up crew has bagged their last load of trash. He watches the U-Haul containing the furniture, Sammy in his trunk, and various collectibles from the upstairs bedrooms drive off to storage.

Slowly but surely the house is being gutted, but it doesn’t feel as sad as it did before.

Blaine waits until the last straggler climbs in their car and drives away before he starts peeling the plastic suit off Kurt’s body.

“What…Blaine!” Kurt giggles.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” Blaine mumbles, tearing the elastic around the ankles so Kurt can step out, rolling it up into a careful ball, and tossing it into the dumpster. “Let’s get going.”

“Why the rush?” Kurt laughs as Blaine steers Kurt toward the car, opens the passenger door, and lightly shoves him inside.

“Because we’re going to be late for our second date.” Blaine hops into the driver’s seat and buckles in.  
“And I happen to know the perfect place.”

Blaine steers the car down the street, which isn’t quite as dark or quiet as it’s been on previous nights. He sees a neighbor walking a dog meeting another at a mailbox a few houses down. Blaine waves at the two men, who smile and wave back, and Blaine thinks that it would be nice to see this neighborhood come alive.

He drives through the small labyrinth of streets and merges onto the highway, mostly without thinking about it, his mind engrossed with a bevy of confessions that he needs to find the words to say.

“Kurt…” Blaine clears his throat and puts the car on cruise control, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to…well, something I need to ask you.”

Kurt tilts his head to look at Blaine.

“What is it?”

“If there…” Blaine rolls his head on his neck, subconsciously stalling, wishing that he could make this thought that’s nagging at him go away, that he could pretend that it had never entered his brain. He looks into Kurt’s eyes – sees his affection, his trust – and his heart crumples. It wouldn’t be fair. Kurt has to know. “If there was a spell to make you…not a puppet, would you do it?”

Kurt’s eyes brighten at the question.

“Definitely,” he says, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

“What if it meant, not becoming human though?” Blaine asks, detaching himself from the words. “What if it meant…you know…moving on?”

A heavy silence crowds the car.

“Wow,” Kurt says, staring out the window. “I…wow, I…why are you asking me this?”

Blaine’s teeth lock down around his tongue. He was kind of hoping he could get away without admitting this part.

“Kurt…there’s something I need to tell you. Something I probably should have told you earlier.”

“Okay, well, please tell me quickly,” Kurt says, kicking off his shoes and bringing his legs up beneath him on the car seat. “You’re kind of scaring me.”

“I’m sorry.” Blaine reaches over and pats Kurt’s hand. “It’s nothing dire. It’s just that…I have his journals.”

Kurt’s expression goes completely blank.

“Whose journals?”

“Andrew’s.” Blaine says the name like an apology. “I’ve been reading them, which I probably shouldn’t have done and I’m sorry. But I was thinking that maybe the secret to undoing that spell might be written in there somewhere. But then, what if reversing the spell meant freeing you to…you know…”

Kurt stares down the length of the highway, eying the lights of the passing cars speeding by, before he answers.

“I know you think I’d jump at the opportunity to be free from this body and move on, and I probably should.” Kurt sighs. “I miss my mom and my dad, and all of my friends. Here on earth, I’m so unsure about my life…” He turns to look at Blaine, whose eyes don’t leave the road as he listens to Kurt speak. Blaine – this beautiful boy who came to him from out of the blue, from out of a dream, and who is so willing to give Kurt anything.

Kurt doesn’t look forward to leaving him yet.

“But then again, I didn’t really get to live my life,” Kurt says. “It might be nice to take another stab at it. So, to answer your question, it’s something I’d need to think about long and hard before I was sure either way.”

Blaine lets out a long breath, unaware that he’d been holding it this whole time.

Kurt’s answer is a good one – more than Blaine had hoped for.

Blaine knows it’s unfair for him to have expected a definite _no, I don’t want it. Let me stay a puppet._

What Blaine needs to do is find a way to make staying with him longer worth his while.

It’s another long ride back to the beach house, with Kurt listening to the radio while Blaine occupies his mind with far too many thoughts and far too many rationales. Kurt has stumbled across an AM station that plays mainly music from his era. He sits, fixated on a spot in the joined headlights of the car, letting the familiar melody transport him back to a time that brings him some peace and comfort, which Blaine can tell from the smile on his face.

But Blaine’s mind has no peace, only questions that have no answers. Yes, logically, if there’s a way to reverse the spell that Kurt and Sebastian are under, then they would move on, but what about Blaine’s visions? Nothing he’s seen has happened yet, and they almost all take place (as far as he can tell) with a human Kurt, not a puppet Kurt. It was human skin Blaine kissed in those dreams, human lips gasping his name.

Most of those visions came to him before the idea of reversing the spell was even a possibility, so there has to be another solution to this problem.

There has to be another out.

By the time they reach the beach house, Blaine has convinced himself of this.

There is a way to make Kurt human. That has to be the answer, and one of Andrew Smythe’s old journals might have it.

Blaine is eager to find it, and as they walk into the house, Kurt breaks off toward the bedroom while Blaine zeros in on the dining room table.

“I’m going to go get dressed,” Kurt says with a smile, walking backward toward Blaine’s bedroom. “Do you want me to lay out something for you?”

“Would you?” Blaine asks, his hands sliding into his back pockets as he watches Kurt head for the bedroom. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Kurt nods and spins around, doing a tiny dance as he enters the bedroom, and Blaine feels his heart lighten. When Kurt is completely out of sight, Blaine heads for the journals. He speculates that a spell to make Kurt human has to be hidden in those pages somewhere. Otherwise, how can he explain all of his visions of a human Kurt – visions that Blaine is positive speak of the future?

Blaine lifts the cloth on the dining room table and peeks underneath, excited at the thought of finding the answer.

There’s nothing there – only empty space and hard wood floors.

The boxes with the journals are gone - every single one.

Blaine feels his heart race with panic, and suddenly all of his visions, his daydreams of a future with Kurt, begin to dim.

_What the fu---_

“That was quite a bit of interesting reading you had stored under there,” Sebastian says, his bare feet clicking against the floor as he walks across the living room.

A shudder of prickly cold flashes through Blaine’s body. He stands up and faces the accusing stare of Sebastian Smythe – hating him…judging him.

“What did you do with them?” Blaine asks, not even ashamed now for having them and keeping them secret.

“It looked like you had every journal my father ever wrote in his lifetime,” Sebastian says, starting to circle Blaine like a jackal.

“Sebastian…”

Blaine hears a door open.

“Hey,” Kurt says, stepping in among the two, wary of the looks being shot back and forth. “What’s going on in here?”

“What made you think you had the right to invade my family’s privacy?” Sebastian continues, avoiding Kurt’s question.

“Sebastian?” Blaine asks, feeling dread seize hold. “What did you do with them, Sebastian?”

Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up, looking down on Blaine like he’s no more important than an insect, that this argument they are having is inconsequential.

“I put them where they belong.”

Blaine rolls his eyes at Sebastian being purposefully vague. His eyes sweep the room. He eyes Cooper’s open bedroom door and ponders whether or not Sebastian would actually drag all those boxes into that room.

If Blaine knows anything about Sebastian it’s that he would want those journals – and any other reminder of his father - as far away from him as possible. He’d probably throw them in the East River if he could.

Blaine’s eyes stop on the window with the curtains pulled open and their unobstructed view of the curb outside. Blaine usually keeps the curtains drawn, but there they were – thrown open and facing the street. He squints at the view from where he stands and Sebastian smiles wide. Blaine rushes to the window and the first thing he sees are the trash cans lined up against the curb.

“No,” he mutters. _He couldn’t have…could he?_ Blaine races out of the house, riding a violent wave of nausea out to the curb. He throws open the lids, tipping the grey trash bin over onto the ground. He bends over to peek inside, to make absolutely sure.

Empty. Both of them empty.

He turns back to the house, where Sebastian watches him from the window with a smug grin on his painted, wooden face.

A face Blaine would love to bash his fist into.

He trips over the lid of the grey bin but leaves it lying on the ground in his rush to get back inside.

“You threw them out?” Blaine growls, slamming the door behind him, feeling guilty when he notices Kurt jump.

Blaine wonders how many slamming doors were there in the Smythe household when Kurt was growing up.

“Oh, I didn’t just throw them in the trash, tiger,” Sebastian sneers. “I tore the pages out of the bindings and ripped them up into little pieces. Some of those pages were no bigger than confetti when I finished with them.”

Blaine stares at Sebastian, completely floored. He doesn’t know how to react. He feels betrayed. He feels like a confidence has been broken - an understanding they had reached, shattered.

Why does the price of helping Kurt – of potentially falling in love with Kurt - need to be Sebastian?

“Why did you do that?” Blaine asks, storming up to the puppet. “How…how could you do that?”

“They weren’t yours to read, Blaine,” Sebastian counters in an equally disgusted voice. “Those were my father’s private thoughts.”

“Bullshit,” Blaine bites, nearly spitting in the puppet’s face. “You could care less about protecting your father. You and I both know it.”

“What about protecting _me_ then, huh?” Sebastian yells. “Don’t _I_ matter?” He crowds into Blaine, pushing him back toward Kurt with his body, with the invisible force of his rage. “What did you read about in those journals? Did you read about the way he taught me to be a ventriloquist? How he hit me on the bare back with a switch to keep my lips from moving when I talked? Did you get to the part where my mother went crazy and killed herself? Or let’s think - how he paid a five-dollar hooker named Lacey-Sue to take my virginity because he couldn’t handle having a fag for a son?”

Blaine sees Kurt take a step back, his eyes dropping to the floor. Kurt knows. He knows about it all.

“No, I didn’t read about any of that,” Blaine says, refusing to be pushed any further, “and I’m sorry. I really am, but some of those journals were dated after the fire. What if those journals had the answer to making you guys human, Sebastian? What if I could have used them to set you both free?”

 _Set you_ both _free._

Sebastian doesn’t miss that bit of word usage.

Nice touch.

He wants to curl his lip at it, bare his teeth at it. Blaine is some piece of work - a far better con-man than his old man ever was, and he’s got Kurt wrapped around his little finger.

As if Blaine even cares an inch about Sebastian. Blaine is simply using him as leverage. Poor little Sebastian – poor little abused and damaged Sebastian. Kurt might never love him, but Sebastian is still one of Kurt’s sore spots, and Blaine is using that to split him and Kurt apart.

Sebastian has no intention of rolling over for the charms of Mr. Blaine Anderson. He has a harder shell than Kurt ever did.

Sebastian’s posture doesn’t change. He’s defensive, hurt, ready for the fight he expects to follow. But his eyes – widening imperceptibly – betray his every emotion. He messed up and he knows it, but he’s not about to give Blaine the satisfaction of feeling superior.

If Kurt believes that Sebastian is fine with throwing their one possible chance at true mortality in the trash, then so be it. He’ll play the monster.

But Kurt’s hurt stare breaks whatever wooden heart Sebastian has, and he looks away.

Kurt puts his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and squeezes gently. His hands shake, hard porcelain fingers trembling, pinching Blaine’s muscles too hard, but Blaine ignores it. He’s worried about Kurt. Blaine doesn’t know what emotion exactly is causing those tremors – anger, fear, disappointment?

“You said you’d take me out tonight,” Kurt says, pulling at Blaine’s shoulder, hiding whatever is coloring his voice by working to calm Blaine down. “So, let’s get dressed and go. What do you say?”

Blaine’s body settles at Kurt’s touch, muscles relaxing until nothing of his anger remains but a knot in his chest - a dull ache that gets tighter with every beat of his heart.

“Glow in the dark mini-golf?” Blaine asks over his shoulder, catching a peek at Kurt’s expression as it changes from concern to relief.

“That sounds like the bee’s knees,” Kurt says, pecking Blaine’s cheek and tugging him backward. “Now let’s go find something to wear and hit the road. What do you say?”

Blaine nods, glowering at Sebastian, hazel eyes burning as he lets Kurt pull him away to the bedroom.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Blaine hands Kurt a neon orange miniature golf club and a neon orange ball to match, smiling shyly at the way Kurt looks so adorable in his Ann Arbor Starkid hoodie. The black hoodie is a souvenir from the summer of his sophomore year when his parents took him college hopping, trying to convince him to apply to a more sensible school than NYADA. The hoodie Kurt is wearing represents the last of those trips, to the campus of the University of Michigan.

At that point, after hitting up all the Ivy Leagues with no success at changing his mind, his parents were getting a bit desperate. But the hoodie is one of Blaine’s favorites, and he takes it with him everywhere.

It looks spectacular on Kurt. For the sake of remaining inconspicuous, he has the hood pulled up and the drawstrings tugged taut so that the hood sneaks in over his face. With his pale skin and eyes, he reminds Blaine a bit of Kieren Walker from the TV show _In the Flesh_.

Maybe it’s eldritch, but to be honest, Blaine has kind of thing for Kieren.

Blaine grabs his own rented neon blue club and ball, pays for their round of golf, and then leads Kurt through the arcade - where the cashier’s station is - to the links. Kurt stands before the entrance and looks at Blaine strangely.

“So, we’re playing golf _indoors_?” Kurt asks, furrowing his brow. He glances at the door, and then at the tiny club in his hands. “Won’t we…break something, or hurt someone?”

“Well, you’re not going to hit the ball as hard as you can,” Blaine chuckles. “It’s negotiating the course that’s the challenging part. Haven’t you ever played miniature golf before?”

“No,” Kurt says with a shrug. “It’s a little after my time, I’m afraid.”

Blaine doesn’t like the way Kurt puts that – _after his time_. But Blaine is determined that doesn’t matter anymore. _This_ is Kurt’s time now, and Blaine is going to do his best to make it amazing.

“Well, hold on to your hat, sir,” Blaine says, opening the door. Kurt peeks in through the door and smiles wide. The room is dark, but it looks vast, like it goes on for miles. Every surface is covered in paint that fluoresces in bright, garish colors. The golf courses, the holes, the flags, the bumpers, the statues and other props all glow. The theme of the room is _Medieval Fantasy_ , and every conceivable fairy tale setting crowds the space – castles with dragons poking their heads out of the windows, blowing fire into the air; a sparkling blue lake and, rising from the center, a hand holding a sword; a colorful house covered in candies of all sorts; three bears chasing a girl, with a head of blonde curls, out of a cottage; and a little girl in a red hood skipping through the forest, while a vicious-looking grey wolf peeks out at her from behind a thicket of tall trees.

“Incredible,” Kurt breathes as he steps inside, looking around the room, ogling at every painting, his eyes traveling up to gaze at the ceiling above them. The entire ceiling is covered in yellow stars and soaring purple comets. Kurt walks toward a far wall with a painting of a griffin landing in a massive, gnarly tree. Coming from a door in the tree’s trunk, life-sized playing card soldiers emerge, led by a bulbous woman in a heart-printed gown, while a Cheshire cat dissolves into just his menacing smile. “It’s all so…incredible,” Kurt utters.

“I thought you’d like it,” Blaine says, watching the wonder on Kurt’s face as he investigates the details on a tiny, painted mouse wearing a crown and holding a quilting pin aloft like a sword.

The first time Blaine discovered glow-in-the-dark mini golf, he was twelve. His brother took him. Just like Kurt, he spent a good hour before they teed off looking at all the painted objects, all the intricate drawings. It seemed so magical at first. At some point in the middle of their game, however, an attendant was forced to turn on the regular lights to retrieve someone’s car keys from under one of the windmills. Seeing everything under ordinary white light sort of broke the spell for him, and even though the lights went back out and the walls glowed again, the magic disappeared.

The look on Kurt’s face slowly brings that magic back.

Kurt reaches an arm out to touch the mouse’s proud, majestic face when he catches sight of his hand – bright and glittering unnaturally beneath the black light. He gasps, jerking his hand back.

“Oh no!” he exclaims, ducking his head at the realization that any of his exposed skin will look the same – deathly pale and fake.

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asks.

“My skin!” Kurt says. “It looks…you can see…it doesn’t look…normal.”

“Oh,” Blaine says with a smile. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Don’t…don’t worry about it?” Kurt holds his arms against him, wrapped tight around the golf club. “How is no one going to be alarmed by this?” Kurt asks, anxious over the current state of his iridescent skin.

“Kurt, we’re in one of the biggest vampire wannabe cities in all of the United States. Look around. A lot of teenagers wear super light foundation to look paler than they are.” Kurt peeks an eye out from his hood and takes a good look around. There are not many other people there, but a few teenagers in the room playing mini-golf with their friends have glowing pale skin – not to the extent that Kurt’s smooth, bisque skin lights up, but definitely something other than the human norm.

“See?” Blaine says as Kurt comes out from hiding. “Kids are probably going to want to _be_ you, especially after the popularity of the _Twilight_ saga.”

“The _Twilight_ saga?” Kurt asks, standing up straight and trying to become comfortable with the idea of showing off his skin. “What’s that?”

“Long story short, it’s a series of books about vampires that sparkle.”

“Vampires that sparkle?” Kurt laughs. “I’ve only seen one vampire movie in my life, and that vampire definitely did not sparkle.”

“Well, in _Twilight_ …uh, you know what? Never mind. It’s really not worth talking about,” Blaine replies. “Let’s get this game going. Where do you want to start?”

Kurt looks around at the various courses in the room, but Blaine already knows that one in particular has piqued Kurt’s interest.

“Let’s go to the castle,” Kurt says, pointing off in the distant to the huge façade painted to look like grey stone, with a dragon’s head swaying left and right from the highest turret, bellowing a recorded roar and breathing painted fire.

“Excellent choice,” Blaine says with a slight affectation to his voice. He offers Kurt his arm, which Kurt takes, and leads him over to the castle.

Blaine does his best to concentrate only on having fun with Kurt. He watches Kurt closely as the puppet lines up his shots, tongue sticking out slightly through painted lips, his hips swaying back and forth subconsciously as he prepares to putt. At the fourth hole, after a few passing compliments about his intense _doll make-up_ from a group of high school kids wearing black _Gothic Volunteer Alliance_ t-shirts and Zombie contact lenses, Kurt pulls off his hood.

But as much fun as he’s having, Blaine can’t help his mind drifting back to those journals – decades worth of Andrew Smythe’s personal thoughts shoved into the back of a garbage truck and being driven down to the landfill, on their way to be shredded and burned.

The worst part about the whole ordeal – the part Blaine feels the most guilt over – is that he’s slightly relieved that the burden of finding out whether reversing the spell meant never seeing Kurt again is now off his shoulders – if only temporarily. He’s still heartbroken because there was a chance – A CHANCE – that those journals held the key to making Kurt human.

Either way, they’d never know.

But there’s another burden to his conscience that he’s going to need to confront sooner or later.

What does he do with the journals he still has in his possession?

If he acknowledges he did something wrong in keeping the journals in the first place, then he should turn them over to Sebastian and be done with it.

And yet…

“That’s when I found out that I had been implanted with the embryo of a mind-sucking alien baby,” Kurt says, hitting his ball cleanly into the eleventh hole.

“Yeah,” Blaine says mindlessly, catching the tail end of Kurt’s sentence. “Wait…what?” His head pops up to look at the puppet when the actual meaning of his words hits him.

Kurt doubles over laughing, clutching his club to his stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” Kurt chortles in response to Blaine’s quizzical expression. “I couldn’t help it. You’ve been a million miles away for the last half hour. I even had to let one couple play through.” Kurt slides up to Blaine using a delicate finger to push the curls from Blaine’s forehead. “What are you thinking about so hard?”

It’s hard for Blaine to remember with Kurt standing so close, his cool fingers making their way through Blaine’s hair, his blue glass eyes flicking ever so subtly to Blaine’s lips even though they are filled with concern over Blaine’s prolonged silence.

“I just…I feel bad,” Blaine says, cautiously winding an arm around Kurt’s waist. “I didn’t mean to invade anybody’s privacy,” he explains. “When I found those journals, you guys weren’t even talking to me yet. I just wanted to know more about you.”

“I understand,” Kurt says, resting his hand at the back of Blaine’s head, scratching lightly over his skin with his fingertips. “And I don’t blame you at all. If they were my journals or my dad’s, I don’t think I would be bothered. It’s just…” Kurt sighs, looking down at where Blaine’s arm circles his waist, “you have to understand that things between Sebastian and his dad…they were touchy. Sebastian lost his mom, Mr. Smythe lost his wife, and I’m not sure Andrew was cut out to be a single dad. At that time, men weren’t expected to be single parents. Raising children - that was woman’s work. Lots of motherless boys ended up on the streets, as thieves, or in workhouses – sent there by their folks when they couldn’t afford them or be bothered to raise them. So, when you consider those alternatives, Mr. Smythe wasn’t a _bad_ man.” Kurt sighs again, resting his head against Blaine’s shoulder, his fingertips switching once again to card through Blaine’s hair. “Mr. Smythe might have been abusive, but unintentionally so. He was misguided. He didn’t think he was doing anything wrong. Heck, nobody in the country would have judged him harshly for most of the things he did. But, things got out of hand, and now Sebastian has to live with those consequences. He’s _had_ to live with them for longer than he should have.”

Blaine nods, trying to understand, trying to put himself into those two pairs of shoes – Sebastian’s and his father’s – but walking either path is impossible for him.

“How do you feel about what he did? Getting rid of those journals? Knowing the answers that could have been in them?” Blaine asks, hoping that he’s not thoughtlessly opening a painful wound with his question.

Kurt stays silent, rubbing his temple against Blaine’s shoulder.

“I’m upset,” Kurt admits, “but not for the reason that you think. Sebastian was right. Those journals belonged to him. He had the right to do what he wanted with them… but I think that he did the wrong thing.”

“What do you think Sebastian should have done then?”

“I think he should have read them,” Kurt says, looking into Blaine’s eyes. “I think he didn’t understand his father, didn’t understand his motivations. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not condoning a single thing that Mr. Smythe did, but I think it’s Sebastian who needed to read through those journals for the answers.”

“The answers to breaking this spell?” Blaine asks, sighing with regret at the thought.

“No,” Kurt says, lifting his head from Blaine’s shoulder. “Sebastian needs closure. He needs to know that his father, at some point in his life, really did love him.”

* * *

 

After their game, they drive home in silence – but not a tense silence or a one-sided silence. It is a companionable silence, soundtracked by smooth big band music from Kurt’s favorite station on the radio. Blaine looks at Kurt as he sits low in his seat, eyes shut, hands shoved inside his sleeves, a contented smile permanently fixed to his face. Blaine makes a mental note to find some big band music and download it to his mp3 player so that Kurt can listen to it whenever he wants.

Blaine has also decided to let Kurt keep that Michigan hoodie.

They pull into the driveway of the beach house well after midnight. Kurt stirs when Blaine turns off the engine. He yawns, and Blaine wonders if he does so out of habit. Many things about Kurt fascinate Blaine. He’s so _human_ in ways that he probably shouldn’t be – in ways that he doesn’t need to be. In the time they’ve known one another, which has not been long at all, Kurt has changed. He blinks more when at first he barely blinked at all. The texture of his skin seems more real when Blaine doesn’t think too hard on it. His freckles are definitely more prominent. In fact, one or two seem to have popped up out of nowhere. Kurt’s lips are painted, but Blaine can see new lines and creases. Blaine is at a loss as to whether these are real, physical changes, or details that had gone unnoticed, because Blaine was certain he had noticed everything about Kurt.

 _Absolutely_ everything.

Kurt turns to look at Blaine, the contented smile on his face still visible.

“Are we home?” Kurt asks.

 _Home_. It isn’t a word that Blaine is necessarily all that attached to, but Kurt makes it sound so beautiful.

“Yeah,” Blaine answers, reaching out a hand to brush through Kurt’s hair. “We’re home.” Kurt closes his eyes, humming through his lips when Blaine touches him.

“Can I ask you something?” Blaine asks, combing Kurt’s hair with his fingers as he speaks.

“Of course,” Kurt says, his eyes shut, the expression on his face one of extreme happiness.

“I’ve been thinking…” Blaine starts, rolling his eyes at how weak that sounds. It’s funny how romantic and erudite he can be through music, but when it’s just him, explaining his feelings and his emotions, he tends to sound like a babbling, cliché idiot. “We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or in the future…”

“True,” Kurt says, still humming quietly.

“But here and now,” Blaine continues, “that’s all we have…” Blaine blows out a breath. Blaine seems to have lost his point between his own banter and Kurt’s humming. Kurt opens his eyes, their clear beauty reflecting back at him underneath the low lighting outside. “What I’m trying to say…or ask, actually, is…”

“Yes, Blaine?” Kurt asks, blinking up at him.

Blaine pauses, lost in Kurt’s innocent smile and his look of peace.

“Would you be my boyfriend?”

Kurt’s smile is effervescent, but Blaine knows the answer he’s about to get won’t be a simple _yes_ or _no_.

“That would be…that would be…so lovely,” Kurt says, “but don’t you think that you’d be limiting yourself?” Kurt’s effervescence dims while he speaks. “I mean, I think you know as well as I do that there are some things I won’t be able to do with you.”

Blaine shakes his head, taking Kurt’s hands in his.

“Now that depends,” Blaine says with a slight smirk, “are we talking about going out on dates together, because I think we’ve proven we can negotiate that obstacle.”

“Not…entirely,” Kurt says, blushing, looking at Blaine’s hands.

“Well, if you’re talking about sex…”

Kurt sits up straight and crosses his legs, the blush on his face getting deeper as he becomes flustered.

“Kurt, our relationship doesn’t have to be about that,” Blaine assures him, holding his hands tighter.

“But, wouldn’t you… _want_ that?” Kurt asks, looking boldly into Blaine’s eyes. “Wouldn’t you resent not having it?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Blaine says. “I have two hands and an Internet connection. I’ll be fine.”

“Blaine!” Kurt laughs loudly.

“The point is I want to be with you, Kurt. In any way I can have you…as long as I get to have you.”

Kurt’s laughing peters off and his eyes return to Blaine’s face.

“That’s probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” he admits, pulling Blaine’s hands toward his chest, tugging Blaine bodily closer.

“It’s the truth,” Blaine says quietly, leaning closer. “You…that’s all I want.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think I can help you with some of the two handed-stuff,” Kurt says, his eyes moving from Blaine’s darkening eyes to his lips, inching closer.

“And there’s kissing,” Blaine says, his breath fogging over Kurt’s cold, porcelain skin. “I mean, I haven’t really kissed anyone but…”

“Yes,” Kurt agrees, “I’ve always been very fond of kissing.”

Blaine nods, moving closer, pulling Kurt’s hands up to his chest to cover his heart, which pounds like a drum, beating against Kurt’s hands – _thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpTHUD_!

Something heavy impacts with the windshield of the van and both occupants jump out of each other’s arms. Standing in the doorway is Sebastian, dressed in different clothing from when they left, his wooden arms crossed over his chest, scowling disapprovingly. Blaine looks at the hood of the vehicle and sees a pair of balled-up tube socks resting in front of the windshield.

“So, do you think he wants our attention?” Blaine asks when Kurt eyes the socks. They both look back at Sebastian, his face cross but waving an arm in their direction before he disappears back into the house.

“I’m thinking that might be a yes,” Kurt says with a laugh, then mutters, “the jerk,” underneath his breath, making Blaine laugh out loud. Kurt reaches for his door handle, but Blaine catches his arm by the elbow.

“Wait a second on that,” he says, opening his door and slipping out. He shuts his door, then rounds the van to Kurt’s side, and opens the door for him.

“How gallant,” Kurt says, stepping out of the car, leaning in to kiss Blaine on the cheek as he passes by. Blaine lets Kurt take the lead into the house, opening the door and gesturing for Kurt to walk inside.

They find Sebastian sitting on the sofa with Abigail curled up beside him. His face is blank. He doesn’t look at Kurt or Blaine, but stares at a point between the two of them.

“I…I need your help,” Sebastian says, looking extraordinarily put-out by his admission.

“Okay,” Kurt says. “How can I…”

“Not _your_ help,” Sebastian cuts in, and then deflates into a long sigh. “I need… _his_ help.”

“Me?” Blaine asks, looking at Sebastian, then at Kurt.

“Yeah, yeah, I need _your_ help,” Sebastian groans. “Don’t make this into a big thing.”

“Look, Sebastian,” Blaine starts, having his own painful confession to make, “before you say anything, I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. I should have told you about the journals, and I shouldn’t have read them. I’m really sorry.” Blaine can hear Sebastian’s jaw tighten, the sound of wood grinding against wood setting Blaine’s nerves on edge.

“Sebastian?” Kurt says Sebastian’s name, and the sound of Sebastian’s jaw tightening gets louder until Blaine thinks he can hear a wire snap.

“Well, yippy-skippy,” Sebastian says. “You’re sorry. Thanks a lump. Are you going to help me out or not?”

Blaine sighs. Sebastian is determined not to like him, and he’s going to have to accept that.

“Sure,” Blaine says. “What do you need?”

“I’m looking for some…information, and none of your books in your library have it.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, uncomfortable staring at the puppet who won’t look at him while he talks. “What sort of books did you want?”

“Medical books,” Sebastian says, “human anatomy books, books on drugs and diseases. Do you have anything like that?”

“Wh---“ Blaine starts, but Kurt puts up a hand and shakes his head, asking Blaine not to ask. “I’m sorry, I don’t, but…” Blaine reaches beside Sebastian for the television remote. The puppet scoots away quickly to avoid Blaine’s touch. Blaine rolls his eyes. “This television has Internet access. You can use it to look that information up.”

Sebastian’s eyes snap up to look at Blaine, and Blaine can tell that the puppet either doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t understand, or he thinks Blaine is lying.

“Look…” Blaine goes through the steps while Sebastian watches. Blaine presses a button on the remote and a line of symbols come up on the bottom on the screen. Blaine points to a symbol which brings up a white screen. Sebastian sits up straight, paying closer attention to everything Blaine does. “So, you go to this bar,” Blaine explains, “and type in the information you want. You know, some colleges publish their lab work online, offer classes - if you wanted to, you could take some classes from Princeton, Yale, Stanford, all online…” At the mention of Stanford, Sebastian’s eyes narrow at Blaine, but Blaine remains impassive as he continues. He turns the remote over to Sebastian. “Have at it.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian says with the first hint of something close to an emotion that isn’t blatant disgust with regard to Blaine. “You guys can scat now.”

“You’re welcome,” Blaine says, figuring that’s as close to polite as he’s going to get from him. Blaine turns to Kurt, pulling the puppet into his arms, not concerned with whether it makes Sebastian upset or not. This was _his_ home, and he wasn’t going to censor himself to make Sebastian comfortable.

“So, what would you like to do now?” Blaine asks, spinning Kurt around, smiling when he makes Kurt giggle.

“I’m actually kind of looking forward to lying in bed with my _boyfriend_ ,” Kurt says, smiling with the emphasis. “Would that be alright with you?”

“I would say…more than alright,” Blaine answers, kissing Kurt on the nose.

“Gag me,” Sebastian moans, sending another pair of balled up socks whizzing past their heads.

* * *

 

_“Why are you doing this?” Kurt asks, ducking behind Blaine who pulls him down to the floor as something heavy whizzes by their heads._

_“Why!?” an angry voice growls as the sound of glass breaking and shattering to the floor fills the room. “Because what do I get? You get each other! You get a life, and I…get…NOTHING!”_

_Blaine shields his eyes against the spray of glass in time to catch something else swing their way. Blaine grabs Kurt around the waist and drops to the floor, shielding Kurt as best he can from impact with the hard ground._

_“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Blaine yells, looking Kurt over quickly to make sure he’s okay before helping him to his feet. “We can help you! We can…we can figure out a way!”_

_“There is no way,” the voice says, thick with furious tears. “Not for me.”_

_Blaine pushes Kurt behind his body as a tall figure approaches, but without knowing it, they’ve backed into a corner – trapped as the man in front of them raises his brutal weapon above his head._

_“But if I can’t have my happiness,” the voice says – flat and determined, “then I’ll make for damn sure you don’t either!”_

_Blaine flattens his body against Kurt, doing his best to keep Kurt out of reach of the metal poker coming down swiftly toward his head._

_“No!” he screams, catching a single flash of green eyes before…_

Blaine’s eyes open wide, his breath coming fast, his chest heaving. He has to blink a dozen times to clear the fear from his brain.

He died. Blaine swore he had just died.

Dreams about death are a hard thing for Blaine to recover from.

Medical science says that a human being can’t dream of their own death.

Blaine would like to beg to differ.

His body feels numb, and it’s going to take him a moment to convince himself that he’s not actually dead.

A look at Kurt’s sleeping face helps ground him - brings him back to the present. Kurt has ironically become Blaine’s anchor to reality.

A dream - just a dream, like all the others, but this time he wasn’t Kurt…was he even himself? It seemed like he was Sebastian protecting Kurt, but he isn’t sure. Even trying to recapture that second right before he died, before the world went dark and he woke up, he couldn’t make out his attacker’s face. He only saw the man’s eyes – green eyes.

Blaine can’t remember if Andrew Smythe had green eyes or not.

He blows out a long breath over Kurt’s head as his breathing returns to normal, his tense muscles relaxing at the feeling of Kurt’s body wrapped around his.

His _boyfriend’s_ body.

Earlier that morning, while the sky was dark, they had changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. Without any hesitation, Kurt had snuggled into Blaine’s chest, wrapped his arms and legs around him, and then the blissful promise of sleep had taken them.

Waking up with Kurt in his arms, even after his horrendous nightmare, was a blessing.

Whatever bad thing might happen the rest of the day, it doesn’t matter since Blaine has _this_ happiness in his life – and he wants to hold on to it forever.

But life, as of late, doesn’t seem to respect his sleep, his schedule, or his happiness.

He hears a soft scratching, like the sound Sebastian’s body had made when he pulled himself across the floor. But this scratching is light, and at the base of his door. Blaine doesn’t want to get up. All he needs is for another puppet to show up out of nowhere and reveal itself to him as possessing a human soul.

What would he do with a third?

Blaine slips carefully out of Kurt’s arms and rises from the bed, padding across the floor toward the door.

He just hopes it isn’t Sammy.

If it is, he’s going to punt that puppet straight to Nevada, human soul or no.

That horrid thing about gave him nightmares.

Blaine opens the door slowly, stymied by the image in his head of a living Sammy puppet scratching eerily at his door.

But luckily, it’s only Abigail, scratching at the door with one tiny paw. She sits primly on her hind legs and looks up at him, as if he knows why she knocked.

Because if he didn’t, why would he have opened the door?

Abigail turns tail and takes off, and Blaine follows. He walks out to the living room, expecting to see Sebastian sitting on the couch, scrolling through the Internet on the TV, but the room is dark and empty, the television turned off, the remote sitting on the couch cushion. Blaine picks up the remote and turns the television on. The search engine is still visible on the screen, and out of curiosity, he looks at Sebastian’s browser history. He scrolls up to the beginning of a lengthy list of searches, which terminate somewhere around four in the morning.

Sebastian started out searching human anatomy, systems and organ functions, which led him to a porn site or two that he apparently only glanced at. He looked up medical programs at different schools, but lingered the longest on Harvard, Stanford, and NYU. Then he searched a few things that were more personal. It hadn’t dawned on Blaine that he would, but in retrospect, it made sense. He looked up information on their old Vaudeville act – _Andrew and Sons_. He looked up articles about his father – recent articles within the last thirty years - followed by his father’s obituary…then his mother’s…then Kurt’s…then his own. The last hour he spent online he looked at pictures of the Stanford University campus.

Blaine feels himself start to crumble from the inside out. It isn’t good to have his heart broken this early in the morning, especially not by Sebastian, but he can’t help it.

 _He wanted to go to medical school_ , Blaine thinks as he turns off the television. He makes this information important, forces himself to remember it. If he can, he has to find a way to get Sebastian there.

He feels a need to make-up for the disappointments of Sebastian’s past.

He hears the creak of a door opening and braces himself for the chance that Sebastian will appear, realizing that what he’s been doing in the living room could be interpreted as invading Sebastian’s privacy yet again. He holds his breath and waits for a telltale frustrated sigh, or the grated clearing of a throat. What he hears instead is the patter of tiny footsteps. He turns towards Cooper’s room and sees a little orange puff of fur go streaking out from the cracked open door. Abigail again. Sebastian must have left the door open for her to come and go as she pleases.

Blaine can say anything he wants about Sebastian - about how much he hates his father, how he disregards Kurt, or how Sebastian seems to hate him - but he sure seems to love that cat.

Blaine sits down on the couch and sinks into the cushions. He has another long day ahead of him - so many things to juggle at the house, and he wants to take Kurt out again. His boyfriend. He gets to go on a date with his _boyfriend_. Blaine almost can’t believe it. He almost doesn’t want to let himself believe it, or he’ll get carried away by it. Everything feels so tenuous, caught on a wire that is pulling itself taut, threatening to break. Fate could step in at any time, cut the wire, and this could all end, but Blaine is determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

Blaine looks around the room filling with morning sunlight and spots Kurt’s sketch book on the dining room table.

“Crap!” Blaine exclaims, remembering that he had once again neglected to send the house sketches to Cooper. “Ergh!” He grabs at the couch cushions and groans. Well, that’s another fifteen phone calls he can look forward to before the start of the day. Abigail, circling the living room to find a place to bed down in the sunlight, leaps up onto the couch. She moves from cushion to cushion, stepping experimentally on each with cautious paws, then steps up onto his lap and curls into a ball. Blaine looks down at the orange cat. She rolls her body around and around until she finds a comfy position and falls soundly back to sleep. He looks at her – the swirling pattern in her fur, the alternating colors of her paws, her pink exposed belly. She’s such a calm little animal, so sweet and trusting, which is probably how she won Sebastian’s heart. Abigail didn’t just need Sebastian – they needed each other. Blaine takes a finger and rubs her belly, and that’s when he notices.

Abigail has changed.

He picks up the drowsy thing, cradles her in his arms, and carries her back to his room.

“Hey, Blaine,” Kurt says, climbing out from beneath the comforter to sit on the end of the bed closest to the boy carrying the sleeping cat. “Did you have another nightmare?”

“Sort of,” Blaine admits, not wanting to mention what the nightmare was about, or all the confusion surrounding it. He’ll most likely tell Kurt about it later, but for now, he’s more than happy to put this one mystery behind him for the day.

“Well, would it help if I made my boyfriend breakfast?” Kurt asks, smiling shyly, his pretty bisque complexion catching the sunlight and turning a rosy pink.

“Definitely,” Blaine says, warming at the sound of that word on Kurt’s lips - _boyfriend_. “But first, can you answer a question for me?”

“Anything,” Kurt says, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. “Fire away.”

Blaine lifts Abigail up higher for Kurt to see. Kurt smiles at the purring cat, who slowly bats the air with her paws. Then suddenly, Kurt’s glass eyes open wide and his mouth drops open with a soft click.

“When did Abigail become a real live cat?”

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

“What…happened?” Kurt rises from the bed to approach Blaine, eyes glued to the orange tabby in his arms.

“I have no idea,” Blaine admits. “I found her like this this morning.” Blaine watches Kurt examine the cat, appraising her thoroughly with baffled, questioning eyes, making certain that the cat Blaine held was absolutely and without a doubt Sebastian’s pet Abigail.

“But how?” Kurt asks, shaking his head in confusion.

“I wish I knew,” Blaine mumbles, scratching the sleepy kitty on the top of her head. He meant it. If he knew Abigail’s secret, how she went from being a fluffy puppet one day to a real live cat the next, it might hold the clue to helping Kurt. What does this cat know that they don’t? What happened in one night to cause this change? Is there a caveat in the spell? A loophole? Does the spell wear off on animals quicker than on humans? In that case, does that mean the spell wears off eventually? And why now, after so many decades? Question after question pops into Blaine’s head, overlapping like a multitude of screaming voices all fighting to be heard at once. They swirling around like a massive whirlpool in Blaine’s brain, their growing velocity making his head pound. None of it made any sense, and worst of all, thinking about it, trying to sort it out, brought flashbacks of his nightmare to the surface.

_Crawling backward on the palms of his hands and the stumbling soles of his feet, keeping Kurt pushed behind him. He can feel the rug beneath him burning the skin of his hands, desperation thick on his tongue, his breathing harsh and rapid._

_I need to get away…I need to protect Kurt…I need to make him understand, make him see…this is not hopeless…I can help him…_

_If he can’t fix this, they won’t make it out alive._

_“It doesn’t have to be that way!” Blaine feels the words prick his lips as he repeats them over and over, trying to get through his thick skull. “We can help you! We can…we can figure out a way!”_

_But there’s nothing but fury in the eyes that advance on him – the eyes of a man who has long given up._

_“There is no way!” The voice, full of tears, cracks, and that crack, that fissure in the otherwise cool demeanor of the man bearing down on them, punches Blaine full-force, chipping away another piece of his already fractured heart. “There is no way! Not for me!”_

All at once, Blaine drops back into the present, into reality, and he shudders, closing himself off to the voices in his head, wishing them away. He doesn’t want to think about that anymore. He can’t think about it. He needs to continue on with his efforts to find a solution, hope that whatever is meant to happen happens, and whatever should be left in the past locks itself away and stays there. Selfishly, Blaine realizes that helping Kurt, reversing this spell on him and Sebastian, may be the only way to banish these horrible visions of the past permanently.

“Do you think Sebastian knows about this?” Kurt asks, intensely thoughtful eyes focused on the cat, the puppet inflicted with the same questions that pestered Blaine though not to the same degree.

Kurt misses Blaine’s frightened tremor as the last of the nightmares fade and Blaine is glad. He doesn’t want to lump this troubling vision onto the pile with the rest of Kurt’s worries.

“I don’t know,” Blaine says. “I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”

“Blaine!”

 _Ah!_ Blaine thinks when Sebastian’s voice echoes through the living room. _Yes, the devil often appears out of the shadows when summoned._

“In here,” Blaine calls out. Kurt smiles when he does. He seems to appreciate when Blaine takes the initiative to include Sebastian, and Blaine figures it must mean a lot to Kurt to know that Blaine has no intention of alienating him, regardless of their rocky start and the bad blood they have yet to exhaust between them.

Blaine has no problem showing Sebastian curtesy. He would like to see them become friends, in their own way, and not only for Kurt. Sebastian seems like a stand-up guy: smart, interesting, ambitious, loyal… Ultimately, Blaine would like to have this animosity between them dissipate into nothing more than an anecdote that they reminisce on fondly ten or twenty years from now. But Blaine also has no intention of backing down because Sebastian is Kurt’s oldest friend. He refuses to be intimidated. Kurt is Blaine’s boyfriend now, and these feelings he has for Kurt – feelings that seemed to develop even before he knew Kurt was alive – grow stronger every minute they’re together, like a web knitting between them, becoming tighter, more secure. Blaine doesn’t understand it, he can’t explain it, but he doesn’t need to in order to know that he doesn’t want it to go away. He’s not going to lose Kurt for any reason – and not _to_ anyone.

“Blaine!” Sebastian groans, walking into Blaine’s room uninvited, scowling as much as a puppet made of wood can scowl. “What’s with all this gunk on my arms?” Kurt takes Abigail from Blaine’s hands as Sebastian walks up to him with his arms outstretched, nearly shoving them in Blaine’s face. “That pottery glue is bleeding out of my arms.”

“I can see that,” Blaine says, leaning back a bit to examine the cracks in Sebastian’s wooden dermis. The gaps have closed, splintered pieces stuck together, only it’s not a smooth surface. The magic wonderglue didn’t work on Sebastian the way it had on Kurt. Blaine can’t understand why. Glue is glue, right? If there is truly some magical property to the glue that Blaine put on Kurt, then why didn’t it work the same way on Sebastian? Maybe there is a different magic wonderglue for wood, Blaine just hasn’t found it yet.

Blaine smiles to himself, realizing that everything he thought would probably sound insane if he said it out loud, even to the puppets in the room.

Welcome to his crazy world. Yup, fixing living puppets and magical transforming cats are his life now.

Add that to the visions he’s had his entire life, and should he really be surprised?

Sebastian hears Abigail purr, and his wooden eyes open wider, as if he remembered something he meant to mention before.

“Oh yeah. Why were you manhandling my cat?” he asks.

Blaine rolls his eyes, walking off to the restroom for a wash cloth to clean Sebastian’s arms up with, deciding to leave Kurt to field the cat questions.

“Blaine found her like this,” Kurt says, holding Abigail up to Sebastian’s eyes. “Did you know about this?”

Blaine returns with the wash cloth and begins cleaning the tacky glue off Sebastian’s skin while he and Kurt speak.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, rubbing his forehead against Abigail’s, smiling when she blinks open her eyes and bats at his hair with her paws. “I think it happened sometime last night. She started meowing at the bedroom door to be let out, so I got up and opened it so she could do her business...”

“Sebastian!” Kurt gasps, staring at him, blue glass eyes stern.

“I wasn’t sending her out to take a wazz in lover boy’s house,” Sebastian says with a slightly wicked grin, “though, come to think of it, that would have been hilarious.” A chuckle follows the grin, but then it slowly fades. “No…I was dreaming.” He drops his gaze to where Blaine delicately wipes up the last drips of glue on his right arm and moves to the left arm. “It was…I was half asleep and I thought…” Sebastian grinds his teeth, not wanting to admit to a night of wonderful dreams, amazing dream, dreams of being a human boy again, of going out dancing, of walking to the late show with Kurt, of buying him a soda and watching the fireworks over the boardwalk…

…of kissing Kurt, that surprised little gasp he made when Sebastian did it, the way he had gripped Sebastian’s arms for a second, had pulled him in slightly before he pushed him away...

Sebastian would never admit that to Kurt, would never admit that he still thinks about that moment, that he has it so distinctly memorized that he can recall every second of it, down to the fraying collar of Kurt’s favorite shirt scratching at Sebastian’s neck, the stray hairs that brushed his cheek, or the way Kurt smelled of rose water, which Kurt wore to remind him of his mother.

He doesn’t need to admit to dreaming of being human though. Kurt seems to know.

“I understand,” he says, looking at Sebastian with sympathetic eyes and cuddling Abigail beneath his chin. “I have those dreams sometimes, too. They’re hard to wake up from.”

 _Yeah,_ Sebastian thinks crossly, _but you’ve always had someone to wake up to._

Sebastian had been there for Kurt, but now he had Blaine to sleep beside. His _boyfriend_ Blaine.

Sebastian gets to wake up alone.

Sebastian nods, making a sound like a sniffle, but he quickly shakes his head, his smug grin returning, wiping away whatever traces of regret lingered on his painted face.

“So, I would be careful if I were you,” Sebastian warns Blaine, reclaiming the snarky attitude that Blaine has grown to love _so_ much. “There might be little kitty bombs floating around out there somewhere.”

Kurt glares again, but Blaine brushes the comment off, trying not to smile at Sebastian’s joke for Kurt’s sake.

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

Sebastian watches Blaine closely, his expression shielded and blank. When Blaine peeks up and sees it, it’s disconcerting. Standing still, eyes unblinking, Sebastian doesn’t seem _real_. He doesn’t look alive. He’s hiding again, the way he had when Blaine first brought him to the beach house. Blaine has no idea what the puppet must be thinking, and that bothers him, not being able to read his tells, nothing that betrays his feelings.

Blaine wants to like Sebastian. He wants to help him. He wants to think of him as just a regular boy, like he does with Kurt, but it feels like there’s something hiding inside Sebastian. Something that Blaine feels might not even be _Sebastian_.

Something that makes the hairs on the back of Blaine’s neck stand straight up.

“Do you have any cream in the house?” Sebastian asks, breaking the silence. “Or milk? You know, for Abby here?”

Blaine lets out a sharp breath, his heart stuttering at the sudden and unexpected sound of Sebastian’s voice.

“Actually, milk and cream aren’t good for cats,” Blaine says, hearing Sebastian’s eyes _scratchscratch_ as they roll in their sockets. “Besides, I only have almond milk here.”

Sebastian’s brow draws together with a sharp _click_.

“Almond milk?” Sebastian asks. “What the fuck is almond milk?”

“Language,” Kurt hisses, but Sebastian outright ignores him.

“It is what it sounds like,” Blaine explains. “When you crush almonds, you get a liquid. That’s almond milk.”

“So, you’re telling me…” Sebastian says, holding back a laugh, “that you…drink…nut juice?”

Sebastian laughs out loud at his own joke, but Kurt looks mortified, mouth falling open.

“Yes,” Blaine says, taking Sebastian’s ribbing in his stride. His eyes drift to where Kurt’s mouth hangs open. The way Kurt’s mouth was originally shaped when his porcelain was fired turns his mouth into the perfect ‘o’ shape when he does this. Blaine finds it extremely distracting. “Yes, I drink nut juice,” he admits, side-eying the porcelain puppet, fixated on Kurt’s mouth. “But we have cat food in the garage, and I think we have some litter. I’ll bring it into the house.”

“Thank you, Blaine,” Kurt says with emphasis, trying to goad Sebastian into echoing the sentiment, but Sebastian only rolls his eyes again, and Blaine chuckles lightly at the exasperation on Kurt’s face.

“There,” Blaine says, balling the wash cloth in his hands. He looks at Sebastian’s arms, at all the cracks that have been exposed since he cleaned the glue completely away. “You’ve got a few gaps that I’m going to need to fill, unless you were hoping to host a gathering of ants and termites any time soon. You know, make it easier for them to get in and make a nest.”

“Ha-ha,” Sebastian barks dryly. “Funny. You’re so…a regular card, aren’t you? Well, what are you going to try sticking me back together with this time? Hopes and dreams?”

“Boys…” Kurt scolds, but with a fond smile starting on his face.

“Let’s go out to the dining room,” Blaine suggests. “I think I have some wood glue out there.”

“Wood glue!” Sebastian exclaims with an obnoxious, mocking lilt. “What an inspired idea! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Sebastian…” Kurt says in a cautioning tone, following the two out to the living room with the cat cuddled in his arms.

“Kurt…” Sebastian says, mimicking the same tone.

“Come on, guys, let’s not fight. I know I’m fabulous,” Blaine says, leading a sneering Sebastian over to the loveseat while Kurt snickers behind them. Sebastian’s glare turns away from Blaine and on to the piece of furniture as they approach it. He doesn’t look too thrilled with having to sit on it again, but Blaine figures Sebastian could have other reasons for seeming put-out – reasons Blaine refuses to think about. He sets the wash cloth he’s been strangling in his hands down beside the puppet’s leg, not missing the way Sebastian looks at the wrung out thing and scoffs. He ignores Sebastian’s frustrated sighs and the impatient tapping of his foot on the floor as he rummages through the tools, the tubs, and the tubes littering the dining room table in search of the wood glue.

“I’m going to go get your breakfast started while you work,” Kurt says, putting Abigail down on the floor and watching her scurry away, claws scritching on the wood as she fumbles over heavy paws and finally zooms out of sight. Then he steps shyly up to Blaine to give him a kiss on the cheek. Blaine leans in to it and Kurt giggles lightly against his skin, blushing a deep rose pink as he twirls and heads for the kitchen. Blaine hears the not-so-subtle _click-click_ of Sebastian’s eyes following him, and from the corner of his vision he can see the tortured look in the wood puppet’s eyes, enormously expressive even though they’re simply painted on.

“You two disgust me,” Sebastian mutters, watching Kurt as he walks into the kitchen, continuing to watch long after he’s gone. Blaine returns to Sebastian with an ancient-looking beige tube of wood glue. At least Blaine _thinks_ it’s wood glue. It looks like wood glue, but the label has been worn mostly away. Blaine bends over the puppet, taking up his arms and carefully applying the thick adhesive to the cracks that cut through Sebastian’s brittle flesh like unhealed wounds.

“Good,” Blaine replies to Sebastian’s remark with a slight edge. “That’s what I was aiming for.”

“I’ll bet,” Sebastian spits back, gaze not shifting away from the kitchen door, waiting for Kurt to return. “Out of curiosity, _Blaine_ , what are you planning on doing with Kurt?”

“What do you mean, what am I planning on doing with him?” Blaine asks, concentrating on a crack that looks wider than the others. “I like him, he seems to like me, he agreed to be my boyfriend, we’ll see where things go from there…end of story.”

“Yeah, but, he can’t _really_ be your boyfriend, can he?” Sebastian asks, not hiding his contempt.

“Ugh, you’re not starting this again, are you?” Blaine groans, moving on to another crack. “Because you’re not going to win, and it’s getting a little old.”

“I thought you guys would have the good sense not to get serious,” Sebastian says, condescension and sarcasm revealing his true feelings, “but now you’re calling yourselves boyfriends when you know very well that can’t happen.”

“Uh…yes, it can,” Blaine says, focusing on his work and not on his desire to punch Sebastian in his wooden nose.

“How _can_ it?” Sebastian chuckles flatly. “Are you thick? Don’t you get it? He’s not real.”

“Maybe that’s how _you_ see things, but that’s not the way I see it,” Blaine argues, the hand holding the tube of glue steady while he works starting to shake. “He’s real to me, and I’m going to do anything in my power to make sure that he feels cared for and loved, and that he has as full a life as possible.”

 _You too, you twit_ , Blaine thinks, but he doesn’t want to hold that over Sebastian.

“Is your family going to see things that way?” Sebastian asks. “I mean, I assume you’re going to want to bring him home on holidays, introduce him to your folks, that sort of thing.” Sebastian turns his head and looks up at Blaine through his lashes, the effect positively sinister. “Or are you just going to keep him your dirty little secret?”

Blaine’s hand stops applying the glue, but he doesn’t return Sebastian’s stare.

“I’m sure they’ll adore him just as much as I do,” Blaine says with less confidence than he had aimed for.

Sebastian shrugs, his smile both victorious and sad as he faces the kitchen door again.

“If you say so,” he mumbles.

Blaine wants to prove Sebastian wrong. He wants to defend his family to the hilt and tell Sebastian that he has no clue what he’s talking about, but he can’t, because even if the Andersons were the more tolerant, understanding people in the universe (which they’ve recently proven they’re not) Sebastian is only talking out of concern for his friend.

For the boy he obviously still loves.

“Your arms are done,” Blaine says, changing the subject. “And according to the directions on the back of the tube, you should be dry in about an hour. You know, we should probably take a look at your legs and the rest of your body…”

Both boys perk up when they hear the sound of Kurt humming right inside the kitchen doorway.

“Uh, I think I can handle that,” Sebastian says, taking the tube of glue out of Blaine’s hand.

“Are you sure?” Blaine asks, smiling when he sees Kurt walk back in with a plate and a cup.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says when he catches the same sight. “I mean, it’s glue. I can’t really botch it up too badly.”

“Well, if you need any help…”

“I won’t,” Sebastian says, standing from the love seat, grabbing the wrecked wash cloth by his leg, and exiting the dining room quickly before Kurt can make it to the table with Blaine’s breakfast.

Kurt sets the plate down on the table as Sebastian slams the bedroom door. Kurt startles with a slight movement of his shoulders.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t that go well?” Kurt asks, frowning at the closed door.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, kissing Kurt on the cheek before sitting in his chair at the table. “It went fine.” Those words don’t sit entirely well in Blaine’s stomach, like he might have inadvertently told Kurt a lie.

“Did you get him fixed up then?” Kurt rests his hands on Blaine’s shoulders, his touch a tremendous comfort to Blaine. He tilts his head to run his cheek against the back of Kurt’s hand, sighing at the feeling of cold, smooth porcelain against his skin.

“Mostly,” Blaine says, picking up his fork, preparing to eat the omelet that Kurt made for him even though his appetite has long gone. “He’s going to try and fix the rest of his wounds on his own.”

***

Blaine finishes his breakfast, his appetite returning the second Kurt’s glorious eggs hit his tongue. Kurt sits in the dining room near Blaine while he eats, occupying Sebastian’s place on the abandoned loveseat, altering a pair of Blaine’s father’s old jeans that Blaine had found for him to wear. After the eggs are eaten and the plates washed, Blaine takes Kurt to the garage. Blaine has been in the garage only a handful of times since he’s been to San Diego. It’s so packed full of stuff his family stored in there over time, there’s no room for an actual car. It’s almost a museum, each item, each box, representing an event from the Anderson’s past – not necessarily an extraordinarily memorable event, but that’s not the point. They’re all important to Blaine.

Blaine runs his fingers over the shelves, touching the odd knick-knacks (things he and his brother bugged his parents for as momentos, but that his mom felt were too tacky to display), the dozens of half-empty oil containers and anti-freeze bottles, boogie boards, deflated inflatable rafts, about a hundred plastic beach toys – faded from the sun, the oldest ones rigid and broken from abuse in the sand and surf.

Kurt follows, eyeing the items on the shelves, reading the labels on the boxes – _Cooper’s clothes, Blaine’s clothes, mom and dad’s clothes, stuff to donate_ (which apparently never got donated).

“And you guys don’t live here?” Kurt asks, stopping in front of a shelf filled with canned goods – fruit cocktail, peas, corn, soups, and more tuna fish than a human can eat in a lifetime.

“Nope,” Blaine says, continuing on to a stack of shelves in the corner where some old, rusted cage-like things seem to have collapsed in on themselves at some point.

“If you guys don’t live here, how come you keep so much stuff here?” Kurt asks, poking at a figuring whose head bounces back and forth at his prodding.

“This was the place we came on every vacation, every summer break.” He turns to watch Kurt, currently fascinated by a line of bobble-head baseball players. “I guess you could say it was our _home away from home_. It’s kind of where we came to leave the world behind. We came here when Cooper failed his junior year of high school and my parents thought he’d have to repeat a grade, when I was beaten up at school for being gay…” Kurt peels his gaze away from the toys on the shelf to look at Blaine, sympathetic blue eyes full of a sadness so immense, Blaine has to turn away from it. Kurt was raised during a time when prejudice against homosexuals was much more prevalent, much more dangerous, and yet the sorrow in his eyes is entirely for Blaine – for Blaine’s pain and suffering. Sure, Blaine had the ever-loving crap pounded out of him, but that look in Kurt’s eyes makes Blaine feel almost ashamed for mentioning it. “Anyway, this was where we ran away to,” Blaine says, taking down the cages one by one. “It wasn’t just a summer place. It was almost like a second home. A-ha!”

He pulls out several dusty cans, their torn labels hanging askew, but with the word _Friskies_ still visible.

“If you don’t own a cat, why do you have all this cat stuff?”

Blaine hands the cans of cat food to Kurt, then bends over to pick up the bag of cat litter, lifting it up and facing Kurt in time to see his blue glass eyes shoot up and dart quickly away. Blaine smiles, blushing at the thought that Kurt might have been checking him out.

“My dad keeps the cat litter to soak up oil from the drive way, and we had possums in the crawl space the last time we were here. We used the cat food to lure them into the traps.” Blaine motions to the metal traps he moved.

“Ah,” Kurt says, turning the cans over in his hand and looking at the pictures of the cat staring back at him - an orange tabby that resembles Abigail. Kurt pinches his lips together tight, embarrassed at being caught watching Blaine bend over, watching the way the waistband on his pants slid down slightly as his shirt lifted up his spine.

Blaine feels his pocket vibrate, and he sticks a hand into it, swaying beneath the weight of the cat litter to keep it perched on his shoulder while he digs around for his phone. Blaine pulls it out and looks at the number on the screen.

He was expecting this.

“Ergh, it’s my brother,” Blaine grumbles. “I have to take this.”

“I’m going to get these inside and open one for Abby,” Kurt says, starting past Blaine and heading back into the house while Blaine answers the call.

As always when Cooper wants to chew Blaine out, he doesn’t wait for Blaine to say a word.

“Bla-ine…” Cooper sings through the phone.

A folded edge from the bag of litter digs into Blaine’s shoulder, but it’s less painful than he knows this call is going to be. He hurries into the house with the litter, cutting Cooper off before he can get too deep into his scolding.

“I know, I know,” Blaine says, dropping the bag inside the door and making his way to the sofa. He sits back into the cushions and closes his eyes, blocking out the world while he talks with his brother – or more accurately, while his brother throws jabs at him and he tries his best to evade. “I promised you those scans, but I got a little in over my head yesterday, and by the time I remembered, it was too late to get to a Kinko’s…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cooper says, not sounding too convinced by his brother’s flimsy excuses.

“Look,” Blaine says, not in the mood to defend himself again this morning, “I’m looking at the sketches right now…” Blaine opens his eyes and lets them drift back to where Kurt’s sketch book sits. “Kurt’s all done with them, I’ll send them to you this afternoon, we’ll still have the website updated ahead of schedule…” Blaine stops his rambling and winces, biting his lip when he realizes his mistake.

“Kurt?” Cooper drawls in that infuriating big brother-esque tone that Blaine knows means he’s in for hours of teasing, if not a mention of this new development on Cooper’s show. “So, is _Kurt_ the reason why I can’t get a hold of you lately?”

“Cooper,” Blaine says, trying to affect a no-nonsense _I’m-not-discussing-this-with-you-right-now_ tone, “I’m not…”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Cooper continues, “Blainey’s got himself a summer romance.”

“Coop…”

“Wait! Is he working for one of our contractors?” Cooper asks, toning down the teasing at the intrusive thought of a possible lawsuit. “Because I think some of them have no-no policies about that kind of thing.”

“No, Coop,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes.

“Thank God!” Cooper exclaims, audibly relieved. “Well, then, you have my blessing. Go Blainers!” Cooper laughs. “And here I thought you were spending your nights playing around with those puppets.”

“I told you, the puppets are just a hobby,” Blaine says, subconsciously lowering his voice, hoping that no puppet ears overhear that damning statement.

“So, how did you meet this Kurt?” Cooper asks. “Tell me the deets. Give me the juicy gossip…the 4-1-1.”

“You know, Cooper,” Blaine starts, “I would, but I need to get to the house. We have work in the basement to do today, and I have a feeling we’re going to unearth some really interesting stuff down there, so…”

“You’re right, little brother. You’re right,” Cooper agrees. “That’s fine. It’s all good. Good to see you getting serious about the job again.”

Blaine silently fumes, but says nothing in response to Cooper’s condescending remark.

 _Choose your battles, Blaine,_ he reminds himself.

“Thank you, Coop,” Blaine concedes. He hears a door click and turns to see Kurt step out of their room, dressed in the pair of altered jeans and a tight (deliciously tight) cashmere sweater that might have been his mom’s at some point.

It looks way better on Kurt, whose ever it is. Kurt strikes a pose when he notices Blaine staring, doing a little twirl to show Blaine the outfit from all sides. Blaine mouths a silent _damn_ when he sees the outfit from the back, the way the newly-tailored pants hug Kurt’s body.

Sometimes it’s a little too easy to forget that Kurt is a puppet made of porcelain.

“Well, I look forward to meeting this _Kurt_ when I come down for the taping of the final episode.”

“Yeah, well…wait, what?” Blaine is not sure he hears Cooper correctly, but either way, he nearly drops his phone. “You…you’re coming down? To San Diego?”

“No, to Pittsburgh,” Cooper jokes. “Yes, to San Diego.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” Blaine argues.

“Yes, I did,” Cooper says.

“When?” Blaine feels himself sweating, hears his voice get louder. Kurt, catching Blaine’s change in mood, stops his modeling.

“Just now, so make sure you get my old room ready for me.” Cooper laughs but Blaine doesn’t find it funny.

“Cooper,” Blaine says, trying to sound like his liver didn’t just shoot its entire load of bile up his throat. “I’m perfectly capable of doing the final taping myself. You don’t need to…”

“But, it’s your final show,” Cooper whines. “Of course, I’m planning on being there, silly.”

An uneasy silence settles between both brothers when Blaine finds himself at a loss for words and Cooper figures out why.

“Wait, wait, wait…are you playing house with your new man meat?”

Blaine doesn’t deny it and he doesn’t have any other answer for Cooper – not one that he’d buy.

“Blaine, you dog!” Cooper crows. “What’s it been? Three days? Four?”

“Cooper,” Blaine starts over, knowing it’s fruitless, knowing he’s not going to get any say.

“Don’t worry,” Cooper assures him, completely oblivious as per usual. “I’ll only be in town for a few days. I promise to lay low while you play hide-the-salami with your _boyfriend_.”

“Cooper, wait…”

“I have to get going,” Cooper says, a chuckle behind his words, “plane tickets to buy, a car to rent, dinner reservations to make…”

“Cooper,” Blaine calls through the phone, raising his voice, hoping to get Cooper to listen.

But, of course, he doesn’t.

“Bye-bye, squirt.”

Kurt sits beside Blaine on the couch as the call goes dead.

Blaine stares at the phone, his mouth dry, his throat burning, the pounding in his head returning with a vengeance, throbbing at his temples, filling his mind again with the sound of screaming – this time, his own.

“Blaine,” Kurt says softly, putting a hand on Blaine’s arm, “is there something the matter? You look like death warmed over?”

“Do I?” Blaine asks, not sure he understands the reference but it sounds like it fits. That’s the way he feels. Like some jerk psychic savant, Sebastian had unwittingly predicted his fate.

Before Blaine could figure out exactly how he should do it, _if_ he should do it, he would have to explain Kurt to Cooper.

What the hell was he going to do?

“Yeah,” Kurt laughs, putting a hand on both sides of Blaine’s head, feeling his skin for fever. “Did you have another vision?”

“No,” Blaine says, blinking down at the phone in his hand. “No, not a vision.”

_His life flashing before his eyes._

Kurt smiles nervously, trying to catch Blaine’s glassy stare.

“Blaine, you’re kind of scaring me. Is everything okay?”

Blaine shoves his phone into his pocket and puts a smile on his face, one he hopes is convincing enough to erase Kurt’s concerns.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, wrapping an arm around Kurt’s waist and pulling his boyfriend close. “Everything’s fine.”

“You promise?” Kurt asks, bringing a hand up to thread his fingers soothingly through Blaine’s hair.

“Cross my heart,” Blaine answers, resting his head on the puppet’s shoulder.

Screw what Sebastian said. Kurt is as real to Blaine as anyone – flesh and blood or porcelain and wire. It made no difference. The boy in his embrace is as beautiful, kind, and compassionate as any person Blaine had ever met.

And he’d make his brother see that…somehow.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry this took so long to update! I haven't dropped off the radar (those of you who follow me know I'm still here). This has a few more chapters to go before the big finish so I hope you'll stick around. I'll get it done ASAP :)

Blaine wants to shove any thought of Cooper and his upcoming visit (also known as _the_ _disturbance of Blaine’s peace_ ) completely out of his mind, at least for the day, but that’s pretty difficult when everything he needs to do surrounds Cooper – he has to send _Cooper_ Kurt’s sketches of _Cooper’s_ project house. Then he has to go to said house and film some shots for _Cooper’s_ show. He has to discuss _Cooper’s_ timeframe with the contractors and go back over _Cooper’s_ budget to make sure they are staying within their means. At every angle, it seems that Blaine’s whole day is Cooper, Cooper, Cooper, Cooper, Cooper.

Until sunset, when the whole night will be him and Kurt – and Blaine has an idea for a very special, very unique date for the two of them. He’ll need to double check some details when he can steal a moment alone, but then…

With that in mind, Blaine decides to get his Cooper-centric responsibilities out of the way as quickly as possible, tearing into them like the cliché yanking-off-a-bandage, only this bandage is made of heavy duty duct tape, attached to his skin with tiny hooks like claws digging in, refusing to be removed without leaving behind some marks.

It turns out those “marks” are Sebastian’s words from earlier, which, like it or not, ring in Blaine’s ears, tolling with urgency to them - _Is your family going to see things that way…or are you just going to keep him your dirty little secret?_

One look into Kurt’s excited blue eyes as they make their way to Blaine’s vehicle answers that question for him.

No. Kurt is not going to be a dirty secret. Blaine refuses to keep him hidden. This beautiful boy who puts so much trust in Blaine deserves better than that.

They leave the beach house and head straight to Kinko’s to scan and email the mock-ups Kurt drew. Dressed in Blaine’s hoodie (though Blaine considers it _Kurt’s_ hoodie now) and covered from head to toe, Blaine takes Kurt with him in to the store and shows Kurt how to use the various pieces of office equipment. He teaches Kurt to scan the individual sketches into the computer, attach them to an email, and then send them off via Internet. Kurt had said that he and Sebastian knew about things like cellphones and computers - that they had learned about these advances from television shows they heard while they were still broken pieces in that horrid basement room. But _knowing_ about them and _seeing_ them in action are two very different things. Several times, Kurt looks behind the screen of the computer to try and see where the message Blaine sent had gone, examining the USB cords closely, and then staring at the wall behind with a puzzled expression.

“Amazing,” Kurt says in a breathy voice. “And you’re sure your brother is going to get the message in time?”

Blaine smiles as he gathers up their things, appreciating anew through Kurt’s eyes the technology that he uses every day and takes for granted.

“He probably has it by now,” Blaine says, shifting everything he’s carrying to underneath one arm as he fishes his vibrating phone out of his pocket. He looks at the screen, and then turns it to Kurt to prove his point.

_To: Blaine_

_From: Cooper_

_Finally! It took you long enough, but I have to say that they’re worth it. These look awesome! Say thanks to your man for me. You might want to consider slipping him a bonus – wink, wink ;)_

Kurt giggles at the message, the innuendos going a bit over his head. “I guess he got the sketches.” Then Kurt grabs Blaine’s wrist, keeping him from putting the phone away before he can read the message again. “Your man? _Your_ _man_?” He looks at Blaine’s face and his unashamed smile, then back to the message. “Is he referring to…did you…did you tell him about me?”

“Yup,” Blaine says, taking it cool. He didn’t intend on revealing to Kurt yet that he had slipped and told his brother about them, but then again, things had been leaping out of his control back and forth for days. Besides, he wants to be honest with Kurt – even if that honesty blindsides him. “Not the…” Blaine gestures at Kurt’s body with a flick of his eyes, “of course, but yes. I told him about you…about us. Well, to be fair, he sort of figured it out on his own.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Kurt asks, releasing his grip on Blaine’s wrist and quickly shoving his hands under the hem of the hoodie. The worry on Kurt’s face makes Blaine wonder if he did the right thing, if he should have tried harder to come up with a convincing white lie for his brother and put off this confrontation until Kurt was more comfortable with the idea, but in his heart, he doesn’t feel that this can go any other way. As inconceivable as it seems, _this_ is right.

“Yes,” Blaine says, whispering the word into Kurt’s ear as he kisses him on the cheek. “I think it is. I know I need to help you keep your secret from the world, but Cooper’s a good guy. You’ll see.” _I hope_.

“Alright,” Kurt says with a sigh, leaning in to the lips on his cheek. “If you say so. I trust you.”

Blaine swallows hard and takes Kurt’s arm.

He hopes, more than anything, that Kurt’s trust in his judgement is not misplaced.

“You know, I don’t think I told you how amazing your sketches are,” Blaine says, leading Kurt back outside and over to where they’re parked.

“You may have mentioned it once,” Kurt teases.

“You know, my brother has a lot of connections in the design business. I bet he could get you a job designing rooms - for renovations, at least. Heck, maybe _he’d_ hire you. He already seems impressed with your work.”

“But, won’t I have to meet with people?” Kurt asks, looking into Blaine’s face as Blaine opens the van door and Kurt slides into his seat.

“Not necessarily,” Blaine replies. He shuts the door for Kurt, then walks to his side of the vehicle and opens the driver door. “It’s something you can do from home. I mean, my brother’s renovating a whole house and you haven’t seen him yet.” _But, you will_. The invasive thought pops into Blaine’s head, but he ignores it and continues. “That could be your shtick. You can be this uber-talented recluse that no one ever sees and create brilliant designs without leaving your million-dollar mansion.”

“That sounds…interesting,” Kurt admits, a touch of pink highlighting his cheeks at Blaine’s faith in his abilities. “But to be honest, I’ve always wanted to make a living with the clothes I design. Is that something you can do from home?”

Blaine smiles wide and smacks the steering wheel.

“Even better!” he says. “In fact, design your fashions and _don’t_ cover up! You’ll be cutting edge! A visionary! An icon!”

Kurt laughs at Blaine’s enthusiasm. In a way, it gives him hope. Perhaps there is a place in this new world for someone like Kurt. Maybe Blaine isn’t being naïve by promising to help Kurt find it.

Maybe it’s not farfetched for the two of them to envision a life together.

“That sounds great,” Kurt says, quieting as Blaine starts the engine and negotiates out of the parking spot. “But that seems like jumping a few steps. Don’t I need to go to school to become a designer?”

“There _are_ schools for fashion and design,” Blaine says, thinking fleetingly of NYADA before turning on to the highway. “But if you have enough natural talent, you can design an amazing clothing line and become a break-out celebrity. They even have television shows dedicated to making talented people into fashion’s newest stars, and the contestants don’t necessarily have degrees. I think the last woman who won was a housewife from Poughkeepsie”

“I miss going to school,” Kurt says. “I know I talked about going to New York and being on the stage, or going to California and breaking into the movies. But the more time I spent in the basement, the more I realized, I want to go to school so badly, just like…”

“Like Sebastian?”

Kurt looks at Blaine and nods.

“Yeah,” he says sadly. “Like Sebastian.”

Kurt slides a hand onto Blaine’s shoulder, the mention of Sebastian bringing them both to a solemn place. Blaine and Kurt seem to have silently agreed that Kurt will be okay as long as he has Blaine. One way or another, they’ll work things out as a team.

But if Sebastian decides that their way isn’t his way, if he decides to try and make it on his own, if they can’t do anything about the spell, then what will happen to him?

More and more, Blaine finds himself caring about Sebastian’s fate, and not just for Kurt’s sake.

_Because what do I get? You get each other! You get a life, and I…get…NOTHING! There is no way! Not for me!_

The words hit Blaine so hard and so fast, he almost jerks across three lanes of traffic and pulls over. He turns his head hard to the right to see if Kurt is okay, but Kurt’s eyes are trained out the window the way they usually are on these drives. If he noticed Blaine’s momentary snap out of reality, he doesn’t show it.

Blaine’s heart _thumpthumpthumps_ like mad, finally putting a face to the words.

 _Sebastian_. Those words in his nightmare – or his vision? – belonged to Sebastian.

No. Sebastian had spoken them, but not Sebastian.

Not _entirely_ Sebastian. Or not the _real_ Sebastian.

Sebastian’s anger, but not properly directed?

The prospects are too numerous, too perplexing. Blaine’s head pounds, his brain twisting in unnatural ways to work the possibilities out, narrow them down. He tries to recapture the feelings of that memory, down to the heart-stopping anxiety of the moment when he died.

Probably not the smartest thing to do while he’s driving, but he needs answers, and reliving that nightmare is the easiest way to get them. But through the haze of his vision, through the renewed ache in his body brought about by fear, answers are the one thing he’s not getting.

Blaine doesn’t know how he’s going to tell Kurt – _what_ exactly he’s going to tell Kurt - but as of right now, Blaine is positively sure _something_ is wrong with Sebastian.

Terribly, horribly wrong.

_***_

“So what are we working on today, captain?” Kurt asks as Blaine pulls up to the curb a short distance from the house. Kurt takes a peek out the windshield and sees a crew of painters have already arrived, hard at work ridding the exterior of the cartoonish fun house colors.

“Well, the house is structurally sound, all things considered,” Blaine explains, grabbing a biohazard suit he had tossed into the backseat earlier and helping Kurt into it. “Today we have crews painting the outside, as you can see. Another crew is going to be working on the wiring, making way for the remodel of the individual rooms, and now that the heavy equipment is more or less out of the way, I need to square some things away down in the basement.”

Kurt watches Blaine fuss with the suit, rolling it up his legs like before, hands touching him respectfully – the perfect gentleman.

Kurt loves that Blaine is such a gentleman, but it might be nice to see Blaine a little rougher around the edges, more raw, unhinged, with his hands on Kurt’s body, his mouth on Kurt’s skin, that honeyed voice of his moaning Kurt’s name…

The thought makes Kurt gasp when Blaine slips the gloves over his hands.

“Are you alright there?” Blaine asks, checking to make sure the right digits made it into the right holes.

“Yes,” Kurt says, his voice pitchy-er than normal. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Blaine struggles trying to get the suit to fit over the hoodie. Realizing there is no way to make it work, he grabs the hem of the hoodie and bunches it, slowly working it up over the sweater Kurt is wearing underneath.

“How do _I_ get to help?” Kurt asks to take his mind off the fact that Blaine is undressing him, the casual innocence of it such an enormous turn-on.

If only he were human. If only he could get Blaine to see him that way, to feel him as warm and real.

“ _You_ will be choosing the fabrics and the colors for the rooms,” Blaine reveals, focusing on taking the sweater off quickly and carefully, and not on the fact that the backs of his fingers are rumpling the soft cashmere fabric, or that his skin brushes over Kurt’s stomach when the sweater lifts.

“Me?”

“Yup.” Blaine takes the hoodie off and lays it on the seat behind them. He smoothes down Kurt’s sweater and finishes putting on the suit.

“All of them?” Kurt asks, overwhelmed by the job he’s being given. It sounds important, like something someone more qualified should be handling…but he can’t wait to get started.

“Yup,” Blaine says, pulling the ties on the suit’s hood and closing up the face until only Kurt’s smiling eyes peek out. “Pick out whatever you want. Go crazy. I trust you.”

Kurt puts his hands over Blaine’s, his fingers still holding the ties to the hood.

“Thank you,” Kurt says through the plastic fabric of the biohazard suit.

“For what?” Blaine asks, his brow crinkling.

“For what?” Kurt laughs with disbelief. “For everything. For putting me back together, for taking me to the beach and to play mini-golf…for inviting me to sleep in your bed with you…for giving me hope that there’s something for me beyond all of this…” He lowers his eyelids and leans forward, pressing a kiss through the hood to Blaine’s fingers where they hover near his chin. “Thank you for making me feel human again,” Kurt says quietly. “For making life _real_ again, and not a nightmare.”

Blaine watches Kurt raise his eyes to meet his. They look watery, as if tears might start dripping down his cheeks.

Blaine leans towards Kurt’s hands, to place a kiss on Kurt’s fingers, but it’s not enough. Not for this moment between them. So instead the kiss lands on Kurt’s lips through the hood. It’s only a peck, but it promises much more.

“Thank you,” Blaine says, “for plucking up the courage to talk to me.”

Blaine wants to kiss Kurt again, wants to pull open the hood and lay kisses over every inch of skin on his face, and the thought that Kurt might want him to, might surrender to all those kisses, might kiss him back, fills Blaine with heat – an unimaginable liquid heat – that draws from everywhere in his body and settles in his stomach, growing, burning hot, until the need to feel Kurt’s cool body against his becomes unbearable.

That desire Blaine had to be wrapped up all day in Kurt’s embrace, exchanging slow kisses and talking about their lives, their wants, their dreams, their desires? He can see himself quite happily doing that here in this vehicle. If he puts the seatbacks down, it would more than accommodate them. They won’t make any progress on the renovation today, but so what? Yes, it’s irrational and irresponsible, but Blaine remembers the taste of Kurt’s moans in his mouth (curtesy of a vision) and suddenly Blaine doesn’t care if they get the house done or not.

That’s where cellphones come in handy.

Blaine’s phone goes off, and seeing as it’s set to vibrate, shoved in his pocket inches from his rapidly hardening cock, it’s not something he can ignore.

“Uh…my phone’s ringing…” Blaine sits back in his seat, lifting up his hips to dig his phone out of his pocket, praying that Kurt doesn’t see his hard-on pushing against the fly of his jeans, “I should take this.”

“Alright,” Kurt says, taking over the task of tying the hood, eyes darting away with a small smile lifting his lips when he catches sight of the front of Blaine’s jeans.

Blaine pulls the phone out of the tight jean pocket, then takes a peek at the screen to see if the call is coming from his brother’s number before he answers.

If it is, he’ll let it go to voicemail.

It isn’t, so he has to answer it.

“Hello?” Blaine tries to come up with any thought possible to kill his boner – kittens playing with laser pointers, small children crying over dropped ice cream, the fight he got into with his parents last Thanksgiving – and his erection begins to deflate, but his hard work goes directly down the toilet when Kurt turns in his chair and puts his hand on Blaine’s shoulder.

“Hey, Blaine,” a woman’s voice says loud enough for Kurt to hear, “are we going to get inside and get the wiring done, or do we get to hang outside and watch you make-out with your boyfriend?”

Both Kurt’s and Blaine’s faces snap up, both boys looking out the window. They see a group of workers gathered on the front lawn of the house, staring at Blaine’s vehicle, which he had thought was better concealed than it apparently was. The woman on the phone – Lorelei, the lead electrician – stands at the head of the congregation, the biggest shit-eating grin Blaine has ever seen stretching her face, wide enough to rival even some of his brother’s cockier smirks. Lorelei waves, and the whole group waves with her, chuckling at the expression of shock on Blaine’s face (Kurt’s expression of shock shrouded by the hood of the biohazard suit).

They start to laugh louder when Blaine drops his phone.

“We’ll see you in a few minutes, Mr. Anderson,” Lorelei says, voice coming from the phone in Blaine’s lap. Blaine sees her stick her phone back in her pocket, shaking her head and gathering her group together to go over the blueprints laid out over the hood of her pickup.

“I think that’s our cue to go,” Kurt says, the muffled sound of his voice bringing Blaine back from a dozen different places his mind has wandered, but mainly from that make-out session in the car.

That idea has merit.

“I think you’re right,” Blaine says with regret, but he knows that these people depend on him. It’s not just his brother. The people wandering around out front, checking over blueprints and painting the house, rely on him for a paycheck.

 _Blaine’s_ not getting paid, but other people are, and he can’t let them down.

Besides, he needs to get work done if he wants to play later.

***

A few heads turn when Blaine and Kurt get out of the vehicle - a handful of amused smirks and a couple of subtle chuckles follow as Blaine takes Kurt’s arm and the two head for the front door. Kurt keeps close to Blaine as Blaine unlocks the house and lets the workers inside. He holds up his wireless webcam when the team leaders meet with him, each one going over their plans for this day of the renovation so Blaine can get it on camera. Lorelei can’t stop smiling during her portion, shooting glances over Blaine’s shoulder at the young man tucked behind him, covered in plastic, his face obscured except for his eyes, which look back at her from behind Blaine’s neck, the skin right below them blushing red.

After Blaine records the last interview, he walks Kurt into the house, where work has already gotten underway. Blaine aims the camera around, capturing as much activity as he can before he has to head off and see to the stuff in the basement. The power tools are gone, and some of the hand tools as well. There is still the matter of a couple dozen smaller, partially completed puppets, which will find a new home at a performing arts high school downtown.

Then there’s the cell room to deal with.

Blaine hasn’t a single clue what they’re going to do with that room - probably turn it into some kind of storage because there’s no way anyone would want to spend any time in there. It chills him to the core thinking about going in there, but necessary evil is necessary.

Blaine dodges busy workers, as well as piles of discarded dust and random rubbish, with Kurt close at his heels. Heading toward the hallway that leads to the dining room, Blaine stops a woman walking past, who’s eyeballing measurements and inputting them into an iPad.

“Hey, Maylee,” Blaine says, putting an arm out to stop her. He centers the viewfinder of his webcam on her face and gives her a thumbs-up signal to let her know he’s recording. “As you guys who have watched our San Diego renovations know, Maylee Medina is our rep over at Sierra Textile…”

Maylee smiles bright, white teeth glowing against her dark complexion as she waves at the camera.

“That’s right,” she says with a nod. It impresses Kurt how comfortable everyone seems in front of Blaine’s camera. Of course, Kurt suspects that Blaine has something to do with that - his personable attitude, how easy he is to talk to. In front of a camera, commanding a crowd with his charisma and charm, seems a perfect place for Blaine. He would have done well in Vaudeville. He’s definitely poised for superstardom someday. Watching Blaine interview these people, talk with them and joke with them, strike up friendly conversations with them, reminds Kurt of his days on the stage, bantering with Sebastian and Andrew during their puppet act. It was barrels of fun to get lost in the part, to become someone else. Part of the reason Kurt was so good at it was because he could disappear behind that persona for a little while. He didn’t have anything personally invested in making people like the characters he played, so it was easy. Being himself was a bit more difficult.

Having to sing on stage made his palms sweat something fierce, but he was good at it, and that gave him confidence.

But Blaine is so at ease with being himself, talking as himself, and he’s so smart. In this century, with cell phones and computers, Blaine belongs, but Kurt – he’s out of his league.

Beneath his plastic suit, Kurt starts to feel small.

His short time on stage was on such an infinitesimal scale compared to this, compared to what Blaine does.

Kurt hopes he can keep up.

He also hopes that Blaine doesn’t get bored with him if he doesn’t.

“Maylee and I usually confer about the fabric orders, the paint colors, the re-upholstery and whatnot,” Blaine explains, probably more for Kurt than for the audience.

“It’s the highlight of my day,” Maylee says with a flirtatious wink. That wink bothers Kurt, but he can tell it’s part of the act. No reason for him becoming a Jealous Jane over nothing.

“But this time, we’re going to do things a little differently. My assistant, Kurt…” Blaine leans back and aims the webcam at Kurt, who sidesteps quickly to get out of view, “is going to be ordering the colors and the fabrics this time.”

“Is that right?” she asks, peeking around Blaine at Kurt and throwing a wink his way, too.

“Yup. He designed the rooms, so we’re keeping with his vision,” Blaine says. “Can I snag your tablet for an hour or two so he can get that done? I promise, he’ll treat it like gold.”

“Sure thing, Blaine,” she says. She hands the tablet over to Kurt, who nods at her in thanks, trying to stay out of the viewfinder of Blaine’s persistent webcam. Blaine gives Maylee another thumbs-up and lowers his camera.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kurt,” Maylee says. “Welcome to the design team.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says.

Maylee pats Blaine on the shoulder before she pulls her phone from her pocket and continues doing her job.

“What does she mean?” Kurt asks, following Blaine down the hallway with the iPad clutched to his chest. It must be worth a fortune if Blaine said he would _treat it like gold_.

“Since you designed the rooms and you’re picking out the colors and the fabrics, you’re officially a part of the design team,” Blaine says. “Which means that my brother’s going to give you on-screen credit and a paycheck.” Blaine turns and presses a kiss to Kurt’s cheek, taking Kurt’s hand in his and squeezing gently. “See? You’re already on your way.”

“Great,” Kurt says, and it is great, even if Kurt sounds less than enthused, but nerves can be a hell of a thing to shake. If Kurt were human, the butterflies in his stomach would have been magnanimous.

Blaine starts leading them to the basement stairway when he feels a tug on his hand. Blaine turns and sees that Kurt has stopped walking forward, shaking his head from side to side and taking a step back. Blaine looks at Kurt, confused, unable to see much more than his eyes through the hood of the biohazard suit. Those glass eyes stare past him with terror at the dark stairway beyond.

“Kurt, I…” Blaine looks over his shoulder at the stairway and he feels his cheeks flush hot with shame. “Oh my God, Kurt! I’m so sorry! I didn’t think…”

“No. It’s okay,” Kurt says, tugging on Blaine’s hand lightly until Blaine walks over and puts his arms around him. “I want to be with you, but I don’t think I can go down there yet.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, pulling Kurt out of the walkway when two men tromp through on their way to the basement. “Unfortunately, I have to go down there.”

“I know,” Kurt says, watching Blaine’s eyes peer off into the distance as he thinks.

“We’ve removed all the chairs,” Blaine says. “You can work out in the van or…”

“Too far,” Kurt replies seriously, and Blaine smiles. _Too far from Blaine_ , Kurt means. Blaine has to agree.

“We can set you up on the floor in here,” Blaine says through a wince. Lovely. He’ll sit poor, sweet Kurt down on the dusty, dirty floor, but Kurt doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls into a far corner of the dining room, away from the bustle of men and women walking back and forth, and sits cross-legged on the floor.

“There,” Kurt says with a smile Blaine can’t see but he knows exists behind the hood of Kurt’s suit.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Blaine asks one more time, trying to decide if what’s going on in the basement is really important enough to take him away from Kurt.

The answer is _yes_ , but he’ll reconsider it as many times as he needs to come up with a _no_ answer.

“Positive,” Kurt says, “now show me what I’m doing here.”

Blaine takes a knee beside Kurt and puts the iPad in the puppet’s lap. He swipes a finger across the screen and the tablet wakes, the browser window open to the website Kurt needs.

“So, this is the website we use for our fabrics and paints. They specialize in a lot of the furnishings we use for these Victorians.” Blaine opens another tab and logs into his email account. He had sent himself copies of the sketches they scanned. He finds that email and opens the scans, creating a separate window for each. “Take the scan for the room that you want to work on…” Blaine chooses the sketch of the living room. “Select what color you want and drag it here.” Kurt watches in awe as Blaine chooses a shade of pale onyx from the palette of available colors, drags it to the floor of the living room sketch, and fills the space with that color.

“That’s… incredible,” Kurt says, eyes fixated on his sketch now with the addition of a light grey carpet.

“You think so?” Blaine asks, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride in being able to introduce this to Kurt.

“Oh, yes,” Kurt says. “I mean, the color you chose for the floor is hideous, but this technology…it’s amazing.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Blaine says, kissing Kurt on the forehead, and then kissing him again. He can’t stop kissing him all of a sudden.

That could become a problem if he doesn’t get up and leave right now.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Blaine says, standing and dusting off the knees of his jeans. “Pick whatever colors you want and when you’re through, I’ll give it a once over to make sure we have everything we need and hit send.”

“And you really trust me with this?” Kurt asks, watching Blaine leave him alone with this task.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, backing away toward the basement, “I’d trust you with anything.”

Blaine sends Kurt a wink before he heads down the steps, the sound of Kurt’s airy giggle following him the whole way down.

***

For as large a space as the basement workshop is, it feels cramped with the number of people cleaning floors, tearing down benches, and working on the electricity. Blaine hones in on two men starting their work on the small cell room and jogs over. Even though this is the one place Blaine wants to avoid, he also needs to ensure that the clean-up of this room is done right. He takes out his webcam and trains it on the door, knowing Cooper’s followers will want to know what happens to _this_ room most of all by the end of the renovation.

“Okay,” Blaine says, addressing the two men bagging up trash, “I want this room vacuumed, but can you please use a clean vacuum with a fresh bag, and then leave the bag with me when you’re done?” It may seem like an odd request, but Blaine doesn’t feel right tossing out any sliver of Kurt or Sebastian, not until he knows that he hasn’t left anything important behind.

“Yes, sir,” one of the men says, hurrying off to get a vacuum that fits the bill.

“What do you want us to do with the furniture in there?” the second guy asks.

 _Furniture_. That’s a nice way of saying _prison cots_.

“We’re going to bring them upstairs and toss them in the trash, but not right now,” Blaine says. He’s eager to have those cots out and on their way to the dump, but not when they have to walk them by Kurt. He’ll wait until later when Kurt’s not around and have them dealt with.

Blaine heads to the workspace where the majority of the puppet bodies are stored and starts filling up boxes. He knew there would be a lot of puppets from the get-go, but he was certain when he started that he’d have this chore done in under half-an-hour. The more puppets he digs out though, the more he finds hiding underneath. He’s used to working with puppets from his arts and crafts class at school, but as he stuffs the last puppet into box number three and starts on box number four with no end in sight, he starts to think how disturbing this fetish of Andrew Smythe’s actually is.

Blaine knew the man spent the remainder of his life pining for the return of Vaudeville, but who in hell needs _this_ many puppets? Andrew could never use all of them in his act. Was he going to start selling them?

After seeing the condition of this house, the way Andrew held on to everything – and every _one_ \- something in Blaine’s mind said _no_.

“Man, this dude certainly had a hard-on for puppets,” Greg – one of the guys from Lorelei’s team – says as he passes behind Blaine.

“You have no idea…” Blaine says, filling up a fourth box with blank puppet bodies and taping it, only half-concentrating on the job he’s doing. He switches gears from thinking about Andrew Smythe’s sick puppet obsession to Kurt upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor above his head.

God, he can’t wait to be done.

Blaine moves on to another grouping of puppets. These look more finished, and in a way, more familiar. He packs them up, but as he picks through them, each one progressively more done than the first, he realizes what he’s seeing – a multitude of puppet Sebastians and puppet Kurts, regular, average-sized, the same size Andrew used for his act. He lays them out on the bench in front of him and looks at them side by side. Then he thinks of the puppets he’s already packed away. Dozens upon dozens of puppet Kurts and Sebastians.

But, why?

“It’s so weird,” Blaine says, looking at the identical finished faces staring up at him – Kurt with his crystal blue eyes and demure smile, Sebastian with his dark green eyes and sardonic smirk. “Why would he need so many replicas of Kurt and Sebastian?”

“You think _that’s_ weird,” Steve - one of the guys working with Greg - says, overhearing Blaine mumble. “Come check this out.”

Blaine follows the man dressed in blue coveralls over to one of the stone walls, a few feet from the door to the cell room. A couple of bricks have already been removed higher up, but as Blaine is a head shorter than the man in front of him, Blaine doesn’t see what he sees. Blaine pulls out his webcam and holds it over his head, hoping that the camera gets a decent shot.

“We were following the wires that lead from the fuse box, and we found this. Look familiar?”

As brick by brick is removed, Blaine’s eyes open wide and his jaw drops as he stares into the face of Andrew Smythe – a blank, very much unfinished, porcelain Andrew Smythe.

Blaine’s lips move slowly before any sound comes out.

“What the…”

Blaine steps forward, the two electricians parting for him to pass by. Blaine reaches out a hand to touch the face of the puppet, but pulls it back. He doesn’t want to touch it, doesn’t want to have anything to do with it, especially if there’s a chance that Andrew Smythe might be trapped somewhere inside.

But he can’t be…can he?

“Blaine!” A frantic cry from the stairwell, accompanied by multiple sets of footsteps flying down the stairs, draws Blaine’s attention away from the puppet and sends him running across the basement. Something from Blaine’s vision the night before locks on to his heart and stops it cold. _That cry is Kurt! Kurt is yelling out for him! Kurt is in danger! Kurt needs him!_

“Kurt!” Blaine yells. “Kurt, I’m coming!”

“Blaine!” Kurt’s cries. “Blaine! Help!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Kurt finishes with the living room sketch Blaine had started merely seconds after his gloved finger sweeps over the iPad screen. It’s easy once he gets rid of Blaine’s atrocious carpet color. Kurt had known how he wanted the living room to look from its inception. Before he put pencil to paper, he had a finished image of the room in his mind. He simply drew the living room of the house he had long dreamed of buying for his parents when he was a child – when they were poor and his father worked long hours, double-shifts at two separate jobs, to make ends meet.

On the days when his father was gone nearly a full 24-hour stretch and didn’t return till the early morning, Kurt dreamed about becoming a famous performer, of traveling the world and being a big name star so he could make life better for his mom and dad. He wanted to buy them a house in a respectable suburb of Ohio, where his mother could chat with the neighborhood gals over apple crumb muffins and games of Bridge, and where his father had nothing else to worry about but the height of his perfectly manicured lawn.

After his mother passed and Andrew Smythe swooped in, offering to take Kurt under his wing, Kurt had hoped to still fulfill that dream for his dad, but he didn’t get the chance.

Kurt decorates this living room as a private memorial to that dream. He chooses for the walls a shade of Wedgewood Jasperware pink - the same color as the plates his mother had inherited from her mother. She kept them on display in their dining room, protected by a walnut and glass China cabinet that Kurt’s father had built her for their tenth wedding anniversary. Even through the hard times, even when his mother sold off her best pearls and his father pawned his grandfather’s pocket watch, those plates remained a fixture in the Hummel household Kurt’s entire life.

Kurt changes Blaine’s dull carpet selection to a rich sienna. It’s a color that reminds Kurt of fall in New England, of the chestnut tree that bloomed outside his old bedroom window, of his mother’s homemade milk chocolate ganache, and, he’s ashamed to admit, of Sebastian’s hair – a handsome color Kurt has always envied. Sebastian didn’t have to put anything in it to make it look presentable, and even unwashed the highlights in his hair shone like a new penny.

Once upon a time, Kurt would have given almost anything to have Sebastian’s hair.

Kurt makes a note to have the scuffed and worn leather couch redone in blue velvet – lapis, like his mother’s eyes – and to replace the original bent and missing rivets with brand new ones of burnished copper. He replaces the heavy curtains on the windows with sheer white fabric ones that filter the sunlight to give the room a light, airy feel.

It’s designing the bedrooms that Kurt hits a roadblock. He was never fond of the gold paint Andrew used in the bedrooms of this house, or of the outdated wallpaper from the first house they lived in. Kurt favors a pale grey, and he knows that Sebastian would like walls of forest green and dark wood, but the rooms he’s decorating don’t belong to them. This isn’t their house - their _prison_ \- anymore. Kurt and Sebastian have _new_ lives and a _new_ home.

Kurt has to stop thinking of this house that way.

Kurt distances himself, driving a mental wedge between him and any emotional connection he has to this house – a connection that would turn his stomach to ice if he could feel it – and conjures up color palettes and combinations he thinks might work. He comes up with a few passable possibilities, but nothing he would consider spot on. He wishes Maylee would wander by so he can have another artistically-minded person to bounce ideas off of. But with no Maylee to be seen, Kurt closes his eyes and tries to visualize what Blaine would choose. Kurt can’t go by the bedroom of the beach house, of course, since Blaine doesn’t actually live there, and to be frank, it looks like it was decorated by a twelve-year-old. But what about Blaine’s wardrobe? Blaine favors a classic look, sticks to muted versions of masculine colors – the foundation of any versatile wardrobe, in Kurt’s opinion – and by his coloring, Kurt would consider Blaine a _winter_. Kurt’s mind fills with accent colors he’s seen in Blaine’s closet - a maroon shirt, a navy cardigan, taupe suede shoes, indigo denim jeans…

Those gorgeously fitted, body-hugging jeans that Blaine wears so well.

He’s wearing them today, as a matter of fact. Kurt only needs to take the stairs down to the basement to get a glimpse of them.

Kurt’s tongue sweeps over his lips. It does nothing to soothe his eternally dry skin, but that’s not the point.

He licks his lips and a fantasy of Blaine kissing him forms inside his mind – of Blaine, in this bedroom of autumn earth tones and cherry wood furniture, kissing Kurt’s lips, running his fingers through Kurt’s hair, raising the hem of his shirt up his torso as Kurt allows himself to be undressed, to be savored, preparing to be worshipped...

“Working hard, are you?”

A foot taps Kurt’s leg and Kurt squeaks in surprise.

“Oh!” he says, eyes snapping open. He fumbles the iPad, but catches it before it crashes to the floor and hugs it to his chest. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Kurt readjusts his seat on the hard ground with a cheerful bounce. “I’m just…” He looks up, expecting to see one of the electricians or painters, either drumming up conversation on their break or inquiring after Blaine, but instead he sees the dour face of Alex Norton, glaring down at him, glasses sliding down the slope of his nose and perching on the pointed tip, ready to fall off. “What are…what are _you_ doing here?” Kurt asks, scooting toward the corner behind him. “I thought you were only sticking around till we found Sammy.”

“I have more interest in this renovation than you know,” Alex says, pushing his glasses futilely up his nose, the frames sliding back into place the moment he removes his finger from the bridge.

“Okay…” Kurt says, standing and taking an unsteady step back. He doesn’t see Alex move, but the man’s body seems to be getting closer, blocking off Kurt’s escape. “And what interest is that, pray tell?” Kurt stalls, eyes glancing about, looking for a way out. He prays someone will walk by, someone who can help, but this portion of the house has gone unusually quiet all of a sudden.

“My interests are my own business,” Alex replies with a haughty air. “I think the more pertinent question here is…where is Andrew Smythe?”

Kurt stares into Alex’s eyes – a dull whiskey-hazel that Kurt hadn’t noticed before, similar in shade to Blaine’s but with none of Blaine’s intensity, none of his cleverness, none of his life. But the lackluster imitations that are Alex’s hazel eyes glitter with a portentous triumph – like he knows something he’s not telling, something he plans to hold over Kurt very soon.

Kurt shakes his head, stepping to the side instead of backing away. With the stairwell to the basement in his sights, Kurt’s only thoughts are of getting away – getting away and getting to Blaine.

“I don’t…I don’t quite know what you mean,” Kurt stammers, confused by this man’s persistence towards him. “Andrew Smythe is dead…I believe. Where else would he be?”

The egregious man smirks, more determined than before.

“And what happened to his niece, hmm?”

“His…his niece?” Kurt steps to the side one more time, but Alex matches him step for step.

“Yes, his niece. Teresa Calhoun. And I want the full story,” Alex says, pursuing Kurt as Kurt edges toward the stairs. “Not the bullpucky they printed in the papers.”

“I…I don’t understand,” Kurt says, reaching the steps, his whole body shaking, porcelain joints clattering beneath his biohazard suit. “Why do you care?”

Alex anticipates Kurt’s break for the stairs and puts out an arm to bar him. He bends forward, nearly pinning Kurt to the wall. His eyes become serpentine slits, examining Kurt closely, his gaze like blunt fingernails scratching down Kurt’s skin, tearing his carefully mended cracks back to slivers.

“Who are you?” Alex asks. He reaches for Kurt but Kurt shirks away. “ _What_ are you?”

“I…I am n-no one that concerns you,” Kurt stutters, putting a foot out to touch the top step.

Alex grabs Kurt’s hand, prying it from the iPad against his chest, and closes his fingers around it. The man freezes at the feeling of solid and unyielding where there should be supple flesh.

“You’re it, aren’t you?” Alex draws Kurt close and speaks into his ear. “You’re what I’m looking for. You’re one of them.” Alex pulls back to look into Kurt’s glass eyes with a smile of astonishment. “It worked.”

Kurt yanks his hand away and bolts down the stairs, no longer caring about his fears of the basement. Alex Norton, who seems to know about Kurt, about his predicament, frightens Kurt more.

“Blaine!” Kurt yells, clamoring down the steps with Alex close at his heels, trying to grab hold of his biohazard suit.

“Kurt!” He hears Blaine’s voice, distant but coming closer. “Kurt! I’m coming!”

“Blaine!” Kurt screams again, feeling a slight tug as Alex catches the collar but not competently. “Help! Hel---oof!”

Blaine catches Kurt at the bottom of the steps, his foot sliding out from under him as he trips over the final stair with Alex shooting out of the stairwell after him. Blaine’s eyes graze past a stricken Kurt and land on the older man, his face screwing up with a muddled expression.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Blaine yells, shoving Kurt behind him and holding on to him tight with one arm. “There’s nothing left for you to do here! Why can’t you leave us alone?”

“I think there’s something your _friend_ there isn’t telling us,” Alex scowls, baring square teeth and jabbing a bony finger over Blaine’s shoulder.

“So what?” Blaine asks, pulling himself taller to hide Kurt better. “What does he owe you? What’s your fascination with him?”

The workers in the basement gather around, some out of curiosity, others to be on hand to help if a fight breaks out.

“He is my key to solving a very important puzzle,” Alex says, trying to slink past Blaine only to be obstructed by two electricians.

“What puzzle?” Blaine peeks over his shoulder at Kurt, trembling against Blaine’s back. “What are you even talking about? You wanted to be here when we found Sammy. Well, we found him. So now you can go.”

“No,” Alex says with a furious determination, an almost fanatical belligerence in the set of his brow, the flush in his cheeks, the rigid lines of his entire face. Blaine stands nose to nose with the man, staring at his own reflection in the ebony abyss of the man’s pupils. “I refuse to leave these premises until I get a word with that…” Alex’s eyes jump at the sound of scuffling behind Blaine’s body, where Kurt stays crouched close to the ground, but something captures the man’s attention, and he stares off at it, the conversation dropping like a lead weight at their feet.

Blaine watches the man’s eyes, the way they focus to a single point and then widen in surprise. He takes a subconscious step forward, but is pushed back by the men and women still forming a semi-circle around him, keeping him confined to the bottom of the staircase.

Blaine follows Alex’s eye line, sees his gaze fixed on the Andrew Smythe puppet, top half exposed, bottom half still trapped within the wall.

“I…I didn’t think there was another one,” he mumbles, peering between the heads of those around him to get a better look. “I thought there were only the two.”

Blaine’s head turns, his eyebrows pulling together.

“What do you mean, you thought there were only two?” Blaine asks, but even though they’re only a foot’s distance apart, Alex doesn’t seem to hear him. “What do you know about these puppets?”

 _That_ Alex seems to hear. His eyes shoot down to meet Blaine’s, their original victorious gleam cloaked beneath a tidal wave of questions. But there’s also a look of confirmation – one that Blaine isn’t comfortable with.

Alex seems to register that Blaine has him figured out and he turns, bolting back up the stairs.

“Hey!” Blaine calls after him, but the older man is swifter in his Cole Haan loafers than Blaine could have predicted. He makes his way to the top and takes off out-of-sight. Blaine has a fleeting thought that he should follow, that he should run him down and question him, but for the sake of his cowering boyfriend slowly straightening to a standing position, Blaine is just happy to see the man go.

“It’s alright,” Blaine says, turning and taking Kurt in his arms. “It’s alright. He’s gone now.”

Kurt rests his head on Blaine’s shoulder, arms still hugging the iPad protectively against his chest.

“No,” Kurt moans, keeping his voice low. “No, I don’t think it _is_ okay.”

“Why?” Blaine asks, looking into Kurt’s smooth, bisque face. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? Did he…break you?”

“No,” Kurt answers, sniffling as if he’s crying, “but I’m not sure it was a good idea to let him go.”

“Wh---why not?” Blaine asks, but suspicion creeps in and he realizes he already knows why.

“Because…” Kurt says, his voice small with fear, “I think he knows about the spell.”

***

Blaine hangs up his phone after leaving his fifteenth message for Gary, frustrated that the man is not picking up.

“No luck?” Kurt asks. He stands nearby a pacing Blaine and examines the porcelain Andrew Smythe puppet from a distance, avoiding looking directly at the blank, unpainted eyes staring straight over their heads.

“No,” Blaine replies, turning the volume of his ringer on high and then shoving his phone into his pocket. “Nothing. I’ve been calling for over an hour. Gary’s not picking up, I only have Ted’s email, and as for Alex…” Blaine runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath through pursed lips. “I’ve Googled every variation of his name I can think of, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.” He walks up behind Kurt and puts his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, rubbing gently. The electricians and the clean-up crew have moved on to other parts of the house, leaving Kurt and Blaine in the basement to sort out the mystery of the puppet stuck inside the wall.

“Do you think he could be in there?” Blaine asks. It had been on his mind since he first saw the puppet, but he didn’t want to think about it.

He didn’t want it to be true.

Blaine is not a violent person; he wouldn’t ever consider taking a life.

But if Andrew Smythe is in that puppet, Blaine could see himself smashing it…or at least walling the bastard back in.

“I don’t see how,” Kurt says, tilting his head. “I’ve never seen this puppet before. In order to transfer his soul, he would have had to have been with it while he was dying, performing the ritual. But he was with us when he died, lying on my bunk, confessing all his sins, telling us everything he had done…”

“Could someone else have done it?” Blaine asks, trying to overlook the trauma this man selfishly inflicted on Kurt and Sebastian by sitting with them in that room, relieving himself of his guilt to these destroyed boys, not lifting a finger to redeem himself by reversing what he had done, until the very moment of his passing. “What about his niece…Terry?”

“Teresa,” Kurt finishes, wrapping his arms around himself. “I don’t think so. From what I could tell, she couldn’t read, didn’t really speak. I don’t think she understood…us. I think we frightened her.”

Blaine gives Kurt’s shoulders a squeeze and a psychic shiver travels through Blaine’s fingers, tingling in zigzag trails along his arms. He feels Kurt’s confusion, his sorrow, his discomfort as he stamps down memories from the past that start to well up at the sight of the lost puppet.

It’s heartbreaking, but it gives Blaine an idea.

“Maybe…maybe I can tell…if he’s in there,” Blaine offers, staggering the words as he comes to grips with what exactly investigating Andrew’s puppet will entail.

Kurt blinks his eyes in thought, their tiny click like the clinking of tea cups. If it hadn’t been for the utter silence in the room, Blaine wouldn’t have even noticed the sound. As it is, it seems softer than it was when Kurt first came to life, as if the porcelain of his face and eyelids isn’t as solid, that it might have some flexibility to it, more spring. It’s the same with Kurt’s shoulders. As Blaine massages them, they don’t feel quite so rigid, like there might be more than ceramic beneath his touch.

Blaine is probably imagining it. He’s more than likely feeling the cashmere of Kurt’s sweater bunching beneath the biohazard suit. Blaine wants Kurt to be real so badly, his mind is making him that way.

“How do you mean?” Kurt asks. “With your vision?”

“When I first touched you and Sebastian, I saw things,” Blaine explains, “images. I _felt_ you…”

“Like what?”

“Well, from Sebastian I saw incredible pain and rage,” Blaine says, lowering his hands from Kurt’s shoulders and folding the puppet into his arms. “And from you…”

The memory resurfaces and Blaine nearly swallows his tongue.

“And from me?” Kurt asks, leaning farther into Blaine’s embrace to look into his face, inquisitive blue eyes shining over a sweetly bright smile. “What did you see from me?”

Blaine clamps his teeth together tight as the voices return, circulating inside his head, peppered by a chorus of breathy gasps and nervous giggles.

_“Can you feel that?”_

_“I do.”_

_“What does it feel like?”_

_“It feels like…like summer sun all over my body…”_

_“And what else?”_

_“It feels like…It feels like you. Everything is you…all around me…it’s you…”_

“I saw your eyes,” Blaine says with a shudder of suppressed ecstasy. “Your beautiful blue eyes. And love. I felt love.”

Kurt ducks his head and Blaine pictures him blushing, his cheeks burning beneath the biohazard suit in that inexplicable way they do. It should be impossible, but there it is nonetheless. Blaine takes a look at the Andrew Smythe puppet – eyes unblinking, face featureless, body unmoving. Even just looking at him, Blaine suspects he’s lifeless, but he needs to make sure.

Blaine unwinds his arms from Kurt’s body and approaches the puppet. It’s made from the same type of porcelain, but it’s so different from Kurt. Kurt’s painted flesh is pale but subtly pink, with painstaking details added – freckles across his nose and lines on his flesh; he even has fingerprints. But this other puppet is ghastly white with no spark, no soul. Blaine reaches out a hand and places it on the puppet’s shoulder. He hears Kurt behind him make a noise, and then nothing. Blaine closes his eyes, trying to call to mind anything he knows about Andrew to provoke him into life – Sebastian’s anger, Kurt’s smile, the journals, the fire, the look on the man’s face when he cursed his son and tossed his acceptance letter into the fireplace.

But no. Not even the shadow of a memory. No spirit ever inhabited this puppet.

Andrew Smythe is gone.

“So…anything?” Kurt pipes up, his voice hushed, guarded.

“No,” Blaine says, taking a big gulp in relief. “Not a thing. He’s not in here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain,” Blaine says, stepping away and hugging Kurt, needing him in his arms. “He’s not in there. He must not have gotten the chance.”

Kurt melts against him, sighing, feeling lighter in Blaine’s arms with that burden gone.

“I say we call it quits for today,” Blaine says, rubbing a hand down Kurt’s back.

“Can you do that?”

“Yeah. I can leave a key with Lorelei since they need to finish with the copper wiring. I trust her to lock up. Besides…I need to get out of this place.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees. “I know how you feel.”

Blaine turns Kurt away from the wall, away from the puppet that Blaine hasn’t a clue what to do with, and heads for the stairs.

“So, do you still feel up to going out this evening?”

“I do if you do,” Kurt says, loosening the ties to the biohazard hood so Blaine can see the smile on his face.

“I do,” Blaine says. “I even know the perfect place.”

***

“So, do you often watch movies in cemeteries?” Kurt whispers.

“Nope,” Blaine says, popping a kernel of popcorn in his mouth. “This is my first time.”

“How ever did you know about this?” Kurt chuckles. “Do they do this all the time here?”

“I found this group on the Internet. I thought it might be a good way for us to hang out together.”

Blaine looks over at a boy wearing a black t-shirt with the words _Gothic Volunteer Alliance_ printed across the back in silver letters. Blaine had remembered seeing some teenagers wearing that same shirt during his and Kurt’s mini-golf adventure of the other night – the same teenagers who had complimented Kurt on his doll make-up - and Googled them. He found their Facebook page and discovered their plans for a weekly late night cemetery film fest. It said everybody welcome, so Blaine decided to give it a shot. He figured here Kurt would be able to sit out in the open, uncovered, around people who wouldn’t give him a second look as opposed to a crowded theater with his hoodie drawn tight over his face.

Blaine’s eyes glide over the group of teenagers in front of them, all dressed in variations of dark (mainly black) colored clothes – some in jeans and t-shirts, some in leather jackets and chains, some in elaborate Victorian garb complete with lacey parasols, most wearing whiter than white foundation on their faces. Some have sunglasses on, a few with red-tinted lenses, and others wear different kinds of costume contact lenses on their eyes.

Yup. By comparison, Kurt is far from unusual here.

Blaine and Kurt chose a spot near the back, sitting on two huge adjoining headstones, while the rest of the group sits on blankets between the graves, gazing up at a portable screen showing a black and white Marlene Dietrich/Gary Cooper flick. Blaine saw the name of the movie written on a poster when they got there, but he’s spent so much time side-eying Kurt that he doesn’t recall what they’re watching.

“I hope you’re not uncomfortable,” Blaine says when he sees Kurt shift his seat, “you know, being in a cemetery.”

“Oh, no,” Kurt says, eyes glued to the couple on the screen. “Cemeteries have never really bothered me. I’m in one, you know?” Blaine stares at Kurt blankly, and it takes a moment before Kurt acknowledges that look, an awkward half-smile on his lips. “You know, because I’m…it was supposed to be a…it’s not a really good joke.”

“No,” Blaine agrees, chuckling softly. “It’s not.”

Kurt turns his face back to the movie, mortified by his faux pas, but Blaine doesn’t look away, his gaze on Kurt’s eyes as the puppet takes in the action on the screen, sitting forward, as if ready to rush into the film any moment. He watches Kurt’s legs swing lightly against the square granite headstone he’s perched on, fidgeting excitedly, completely absorbed by everything going on. This seems so familiar, so much like a dream he’s had before, or a memory, even though Blaine has never been here, especially not with Kurt.

“Do you really think it could work out for them?” Kurt asks hopefully. “Do you think they can fall in love and live happily ever after?”

Those words ring in Blaine’s ears, like he’s heard Kurt say them before.

“I don’t see why not,” Blaine answers, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “Stranger things have happened.” Kurt turns to Blaine, and Blaine gives him a knowing wink and a teasing smile. Kurt adverts his bashful eyes to the bag of popcorn in Blaine’s hand. He licks his lips with the memory of it, but he doesn’t take a piece.

Besides, watching Blaine eat it is more delicious than it could ever actually be.

 _“_ Have you…” Kurt bites his lip as best he can, the move looking natural even though for him it’s not, “have you ever been in love?”

Blaine stops chewing his popcorn and swallows hard. In a flash, he remembers where this sense of déjà vu is sprouting from. His vision – the movie, the popcorn, the headstone, it’s all here.

All that’s missing are the words he says next. But should he? Should he admit to his feelings? He doesn’t want to scare Kurt off or pressure him. They have barely known each other a week. But there’s something about Kurt. Something that doesn’t only fill Blaine’s heart and mind, it overwhelms Blaine’s memory – as if he’s known Kurt in the past, in other lifetimes that were not entirely his own.

In essence, Blaine’s vision proves that he has already admitted his feelings – in this lifetime, at least. Blaine knows saying them is right because he’s heard himself say it, and he’s already seen Kurt’s reaction. He has nothing to fear.

“Once,” Blaine admits, looking down at his shoes in the grass, his cheeks coloring, though Kurt won’t see the change in the dark.

“Ah,” Kurt says, nodding with disappointment and turning away. “What happened? How did it end?”

Blaine chuckles a bit, his focus switching from his shoes back up to the screen.

“It hasn’t ended yet,” Blaine says, placing another piece of popcorn in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He watches the two lovers on the screen embrace, and then dares a glance in Kurt’s direction.

Kurt is staring at him, his mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. Blaine laughs at the adorably startled look on his face. He presses a kiss to his own index finger, and puts that finger to Kurt’s lips. Then he curls his fingers beneath Kurt’s chin and closes the puppet’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t sit with your mouth open like that,” he says. “You’ll catch flies.”

_***_

Blaine doesn’t know about Kurt, but he watches only snippets of the movie. Had Blaine not seen _Desire_ a hundred times before, he’d be completely lost as to the plot. Kurt is much more interesting to watch anyway, especially after Blaine’s confession. When the feature ends, they make their way through the crowd of moviegoers milling about the gravesite to Blaine’s car. The movie is set-up on a grass slope above an asphalt road, so Blaine was able to park relatively close. Another movie is about to begin and a few random people entreat them to stay, but the two politely decline. Both Kurt and Blaine have somewhere else they want to be, and it would be nice to spend some time alone. Kurt slips into his seat and rests his head against the window, a small smile curling his painted lips as he looks up at the starlit sky. Blaine starts the engine and immediately tunes the radio to Kurt’s favorite big band station. Mellow music fills the car, and they drive in companionable silence back to the shore.

It’s close to two a.m. when Blaine pulls into the driveway of the beach house.

They get out of the van - Blaine first, who rounds to Kurt’s side, opens his door, and takes his hand. He leads Kurt to the house, walking by his side, leaning lightly against his arm.

“Thanks for coming to watch that movie with me,” Blaine says, putting the key in the lock and opening the front door. “I know the venue was a little… _odd_ , but I had fun. It’s been so long since I’ve been to the movies.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Kurt says, stepping over the threshold and into the lightless living room. “And thank you for going to so many lengths to find places I can go. Believe it or not, I think it’s been a little longer since _I’ve_ been to a movie than it has for you.”

“Maybe,” Blaine says, the skin by his eyes crinkling as he smiles, “but only by a couple of years.”

“Oh, a couple of years, at least.”

Blaine puts a hand to Kurt’s back and escorts him through the living room. The house is dark. Sebastian must already be in bed. From the looks of the living room it seems that the wooden puppet didn’t make it out of his bedroom at all that day, not even to peruse the Stanford website via the TV. A knot forms in Blaine’s throat thinking about Sebastian lying in bed all day, staring up at the ceiling, feeling lonely and depressed, with only his loyal cat for company. Blaine can’t take for granted that Sebastian’s best friend in the world has been attached to his hip for the last couple of days, can’t ignore the fact that Sebastian is watching the boy he’s loved for decades fall in love with someone else.

There has to be something Blaine can do. If Sebastian doesn’t want to go to the project house, there has to be somewhere else they can take him. It’s too late to think about it now, especially with Kurt there beside him, not yet ready to see the night over, but he’ll set his mind to it while he sleeps and see if he can come up with a solution.

Blaine opens his bedroom door and Kurt heads straight for the bed. He kicks off his shoes and lays down on the mattress, stretching out with his arms above his head.

“Are you tired?” Blaine asks, toeing off his own shoes and undoing his bow tie, subtly watching Kurt’s body as he stretches, trying not to stare when his cashmere sweater slips up his stomach.

“No,” Kurt says. Kurt follows Blaine’s movements as he loosens his tie, putting a finger into the knot and tugging it till it comes undone, the ends hanging down from his neck. Blaine stretches out beside Kurt and yawns, covering his mouth with the flat of his palm, squinty eyes smiling at Kurt while Kurt giggles.

“How about you?” Kurt asks.

“Hmmm, yes and no,” Blaine replies, turning on his side to face Kurt more completely. “I should be tired, and if I close my eyes I’d probably pass right out, but everything that’s happened in the last few days…it’s been so exciting.” Blaine reaches out a hand and takes Kurt’s, holding it gently, running his thumb over Kurt’s porcelain knuckles. “I don’t want it to end.”

Kurt smiles, snuggling closer to Blaine, eyes locked to Blaine’s soft gaze. Blaine meets Kurt’s eyes with a shy smile, hinting at some secret he has yet to reveal, and Kurt, with not many secrets of his own left to tell, is dying to know what it might be.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Kurt whispers.

Blaine looks at the perfect contours of Kurt’s face - his soft, unglazed complexion glowing in the low-light. When Kurt first opened his blue glass eyes, when he first started to walk and talk and Blaine thought he was on the brink of losing his mind, he would never have imagined how fond he would become of Kurt’s flawless, hand-painted cheeks, or the pretty rose color of his lips. He seems so real in most aspects, more so every single day. When Blaine stares into Kurt’s eyes, he can imagine him like the boy in the black and white photographs. But even if Kurt stays a puppet for the rest of his life, Blaine couldn’t be more enthralled with him, more fond of him…

…more in love with him than he is at this exact moment in time.

“Blaine?” Kurt asks with concern as Blaine seems to drift away. “Blaine, are you alright?” Blaine gives Kurt a goofy, lopsided grin in response. “Maybe you _should_ go to sleep. You look positively loopy.”

“No,” Blaine says, shaking his head against the pillow. “No, I don’t want to go to sleep.”

Kurt makes a face, which would probably be his brow knitting together if his porcelain skin had the flexibility to move that way.

“Then, what do you want to do?” Kurt asks.

“I…” Blaine’s many secret desires stop up his throat so that he’s left with his mouth hanging open, and Kurt chuckles. That sound, that musical sound of Kurt laughing at Blaine, speeds Blaine’s heart. “I want to kiss you.”

Kurt laughs again, but Blaine simply stares, a low simmer in eyes gleaming gold. Kurt’s laughter fades, stunned by those eyes, as Kurt searches Blaine’s face for the truth.

“You…you’re serious,” Kurt says. “You want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” Blaine says, sliding a hair closer, praying that Kurt won’t move away. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” He pulls up nose to nose, eyes roaming over Kurt’s face, even as his cheeks flame red. Blaine swallows, finding his voice where it left him when Kurt’s lips part and he gasps. “I would love to kiss you.” Blaine runs his nose against Kurt’s, waiting for a response. “Would that be alright?”

“Y-yes,” Kurt stutters. “Th-that would be alri---“

Blaine’s lips against Kurt’s cuts the word in half. Kurt’s skin under Blaine’s mouth feels exactly the way Blaine thought it would – hard, cold, but not lifeless, not without its own beauty and enigmatic appeal. Blaine had prepared himself for the unnaturalness of Kurt’s skin, but it’s not like that at all. The ceramic warms to his touch, and Kurt leans in as Blaine kisses him deeper. Kurt puts a hand to Blaine’s cheek and Blaine turns in to it, leaving a kiss to Kurt’s wrist before returning to his mouth. Blaine kisses the corner of Kurt’s lips, then his cheeks, paving a trail to his ear.

“Can you feel me?” Blaine whispers across Kurt’s skin and Kurt closes his eyes, concentrating on Blaine’s touch.

“I…” Kurt pinpoints the places where Blaine’s human skin brushes his porcelain body and tries to connect it to any memory of _feel_ he might have hiding in his brain.

“It’s okay,” Blaine says, kissing down Kurt’s neck, sighing, trying not to sound disappointed, and Kurt knows that Blaine is about to give up. Kurt wants to scream. He wants to cry, but he can’t. He’s not able. He doesn’t want Blaine to stop. It doesn’t matter if he can’t feel in the way Blaine feels. He simply wants to know that those feelings are there. They exist. They exist for Blaine. They can exist for him, too.

“No!” Kurt comes as close to crying as he can when the word passes his lips, almost crumbling completely when he feels Blaine move away. “No, don’t stop! Please!”

“I…are you sure?” Blaine asks. He hovers close, his lips wet and swollen. It’s the most sweetly erotic thing Kurt has ever seen. Without needing an answer, Blaine crawls closer to Kurt’s side.

“Yes,” Kurt says, grabbing Blaine’s arm and tugging him down toward him. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to…hurt you.” Blaine gestures over Kurt’s body - a body that was once broken but which now, under careful inspection, doesn’t look like it has ever been anything but whole.

“You won’t,” Kurt says, shaking his head, moving it aside to expose his neck. “Please. I need you.”

Blaine ducks his head, laughing quietly, a slip of sound like stones skipping over the surface of a lake.

“What?” Kurt asks, not sure if he should be offended.

“Nothing,” Blaine backpedals, hoping Kurt doesn’t get the wrong idea. “It’s…no one’s ever told me that before. I liked hearing it. I like hearing it from you.”

Kurt smiles into the next kiss, lying as pliant beneath Blaine’s body as he can, thinking _real_ thoughts, about being a _real_ human boy, with _real_ human skin that Blaine could touch, that Blaine could enjoy. But the more they kiss, the more Kurt realizes that doesn’t seem to matter – being real or being made of porcelain, none of that matters to Blaine. Blaine likes Kurt for the person he is – made of ceramic or flesh.

Blaine might even _love_ him.

They kiss and kiss until Blaine’s mouth goes dry. They kiss until Kurt moans, his mind snatching daydreams of kisses from a long time past and bringing them to the present, using them to replace what he doesn’t feel with an intense fantasy of Blaine’s mouth on his skin. He can almost feel the softness of his lips and the heat of Blaine’s tongue. He lets his imagination soar and help him with this, and it’s almost good enough…

…almost.

They kiss each other until Blaine doesn’t remember what breathing without Kurt felt like and Kurt’s hand fisting in Blaine’s hair becomes a permanent fixture. Promises and confessions are whispered in the dark, and Kurt becomes so overfilled with glee he could cry human tears.

Kurt has no memory of falling asleep.

Blaine doesn’t know when exactly he’s pulled into another vision.

***

Sebastian hears Kurt and Blaine when they arrive back at the beach house. It’s not like he can sleep, or that they’re being particularly quiet. Abigail has been contentedly snoozing away for hours, resting on his stomach while the wooden puppet strokes through her fur. He hears the two walk to Blaine’s bedroom, talking and giggling. The bedroom door shuts, there’s some hushed whispering, and shortly after the noises start – noises that send long-forgotten fingers of heat and cold tearing through him. These combating sensations shouldn’t exist in his body, but have been cropping up more and more, like his dusty memory has kicked into overdrive...or like he’s borrowing them from somewhere.

Like they don’t belong to him.

Sebastian hears Kurt moan – that beautiful, sacred sound that has only existed before in Sebastian’s dreams – and his eyes fall shut.

With that one sound, Sebastian knows he’s too late. He’s lost Kurt.

He’s never going to forgive himself for not trying harder, for not being what Kurt needed instead of trying to bend Kurt to him, trying to make Kurt come to him.

He also knows that until the day he dies, he will _despise_ Blaine Anderson, no matter what debt Sebastian owes to him.

Sebastian wants to stuff a pillow in his ears - or better yet, over his face - and fall into a coma. If he were human, he would leave the beach house, hit the first bar on the block, and drink Kurt away. He’d also find some naïve, questioning boy about Kurt’s age and own him, while in his head he dreamed of Kurt. He’d done that many times before. But Sebastian’s not human. He won’t ever be human again, and to add to the insults, he hooked himself to this wagon of his own personal torment and suffering for eternity. Sebastian knows he won’t survive in this world without Blaine’s help, and that makes him want to go out to the dining room, find the wire cutters, and clip his joints free. Let them roll him back to that room in the basement and fill it in with cement. Let him rot for eternity in the damp and the wet.

There’s nothing for him in life now.

He lifts Abigail gently and lays her down on the mattress. Then he climbs off the bed. He wanders out into the hallway, sits on the floor in front of Blaine’s door, and listens, torturing himself with those kisses and moans he thought were always meant for him, would someday belong to him.

Nonexistent tears prick his eyes…but if they don’t exist, how does he feel them?

It’s not him. He knows it’s not him, but in the hidden recess of his mind where he has chosen to wallow, he can’t bring himself to be afraid of the monster lurking inside him.

“Are you going to let him get away with that?” A deep voice fills Sebastian’s brain, blocking out all noise for the seconds that it speaks. “Are you going to let him take what belongs to us?”

Kurt giggles, and Sebastian shakes his head. Yes, it’s a spear cracking him back into a thousand shards and splinters, but Kurt is enjoying himself, enjoying life, even if it isn’t with him.

“I can’t…I can’t hurt him,” Sebastian mutters, hearing Blaine moan next. “Kurt really likes him. He’s happy. I…I want Kurt to be happy.”

The voice tuts in his head. The sound echoes, hammering around his wooden skull.

“You’re such a pansy ass, you know that?” the voice hisses. “Always have been. You lie like a rug and let people wipe their filthy feet all over you. You never take what you want.”

“What does it matter to you?” Sebastian sneers. “You always told me I couldn’t have him anyway, that he was too good for me.”

Another tut, this one like a ricocheting bullet shot.

“And there you go being a pansy again. Do you want him?”

Sebastian doesn’t have to say a word. The answer to that question has always been _yes_. Undoubtedly yes. He’s wanted a life with Kurt more than he’s ever wanted anything – more than school…even more than his freedom.

“Then you know what you have to do.”

An image flares through Sebastian’s mind – one of fear and fire.

One of iron and blood.

Sebastian swallows hard.

“No,” he says firmly. “I won’t. I won’t do that to Kurt.”

Another flare, this one of white light, shoots through Sebastian’s skull, tightening around his brain like a vice, filling his head with an immeasurable pain…and then nothing. Sebastian’s world goes black and he slumps down to the floor.

“You’re useless,” the voice growls, “but no matter. I’m just going to have to do this myself.”

 


End file.
